


Appel du Vide

by Gweiddi_at_Ecate



Series: Rex quondam, rexque futurus [1]
Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Bisexual Character, Celtic Mythology & Folklore, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Eventual Smut, Everyone Is Magic, F/M, Families of Choice, Future Fic, Gay Male Character, Gen, Ghosts, I should never drink AND tag, M/M, Male Homosexuality, Mentions of War, Nerdiness, Once and Future King, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Pregnancy, Reincarnation, Sibling Incest, Slow Burn, Soulmates, avalon!fic, denied homosexuality, hints at domestic violence, ish, magical torture, multiple reincarnations actually, that's what the major character's death stands for
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-25
Updated: 2018-04-30
Packaged: 2019-02-20 09:36:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 15
Words: 106,382
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13143918
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gweiddi_at_Ecate/pseuds/Gweiddi_at_Ecate
Summary: In which time doesn't heal all wounds.Sometimes, it takes people to heal people.Also known asEcate wants to write shameless p0rn but the characters might have a different opinion and Arthur ends up being once again the King That Was Promised.





	1. The Two Isles

**Author's Note:**

  * For [lady_cocca](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lady_cocca/gifts).



> I went to bed on a November night thinking "I want to write a one-shot where Morgana and Gwaine have sex and are, basically, happy."  
> The following morning I sat down and began to write it.  
> Things got out of hand. A little.  
>  _Merry fucking Christmas, dearies!_
> 
> Updates coming every Monday, or so I hope.
> 
> (I'm kinda drunk so I don't trust myself with the editing right now. I just hope there aren't too many mistakes. I'm not even a native English speaker, FFS)

Merlin buried his hands in the dirt, digging with his nails.

After two days spent making holes in the ground, his fingers were a complete wreck and his skin had broken in more than a few points, leaving him with raw palms and dry blood under his nails.

It felt good, though. The pain in his knees and the sore blotches on his hands were oddly soothing. Appropriate, even. That was a job which needed his sweat, which needed his blood. He couldn’t choose the easy way and dig with magic. It would have been far easier, but it would have also been wrong.

He had worked tirelessly, never eating, hardly sleeping. He was exhausted.

He took the last crystal from the huge sack which had been full and heavy the day he had come to the Isle of the Blessed, and he hid it under a cover of dirt.

Merlin had created three crystal cages: a first barrier ran all around the shores of the island, a second one circled the castle and its ruins. The last ring was the confinement camp he had just completed, and it protected the altar at the heart of the castle.

He stood up, joints and legs aching, and he went inside the hidden circle, kneeling in its middle. He joined his hands in prayer.

As he began to chant, he felt his magic gradually touching and filling each and every crystal buried under the ground. Merlin drank the energy from the air and the earth and drove it quietly inside the crystals, never interrupting his chant. His body was a filter, a vehicle. Merlin gave himself completely to the magic.

He wished for a shelter, for a sanctuary where his people, coming from every corner of the world, would finally find comfort and help. He wished for a place where magic may be practiced freely, where it could be taught, learnt, and respected. He chanted for a harbour, and for masters who could guide the newcomers so that they would all understand that magic had to be kept pure and benign, hence no one would ever come to fear it again.

He chanted, and his head was crowded with memories of Arthur, of how cold and still he had been when Merlin had laid him in his funeral boat. He also remembered his radiant smile, and how his hair looked funny when it was freshly washed.

He smiled despite his tears and kept chanting. Chanting, chanting, chanting, until the Isle was brimming with light and with the silvery sound of the water sprites laughing, stretching out their hands to brush their fingertips against the grass and the sand of the shores.

It was ghostly, infinite and clear. Pure.

It was a new beginning. A brave new world.

 

 

   

* * *

  

 

 

 

The Crowns of Avalon were looking inside the silver well, but its waters were reflecting neither their eyes nor the clouds above: they showed the face of a young warlock, the tears streaming down his cheeks and his tired smile curling as he prayed.

“And so it finally is. The sanctuary of our people, for all eras to come.”

Nimueh smirked.

“And to think he still looks like a scrawny nobody.”

The lady next to her sniggered, her green eyes sparkling with amusement.

“The scrawny nobody beat the Hemlock Queen, Nimueh. He is more than capable.”

Nimueh grimaced.

“I almost jeopardised the future of all our people.”

The other woman shook her head, her crown of thyme and silver bells tinkling.

“It was never at stake, not with him. You challenged him, and he discovered how strong he really was. Your confrontation was necessary, both for him and for Avalon.”

Nimueh bit her lips, narrowing her eyes in a regretful scowl.

“We were so blind with them, Vivienne.”

“But our blindness brought our children to their paths, and the paths crossed, and now destiny is fulfilled. There was no other way.”

The third woman picked a few leaves of rosemary from her own crown and she threw them in the well. The water gurgled and then Merlin’s face faded in a swirl of light. She frowned and Nimueh held her hand reassuringly.

“It’s all done, Ygraine. Nothing can go wrong now.”

“I feel sorry for him. He will have to endure everything on his own.”

Vivienne reprehended her, “He has to. Some things can only be learned in solitude, and through regret.”

The Rosemary Queen nodded.

“I know, Vivienne, I know. It’s how we all learned.”

Nimueh shrugged offhandedly.

“Merlin will do well by himself. He has all the time he needs, he’s quick of mind and strong of heart.”

“He is only human, and so young. He will feel alone.”

“He will, for a while. Then it will pass.”

“Why, did you ever stop feeling alone, Nimueh?”

The Hemlock Queen smirked.

“In fact, I did. Once I was reunited with my friends.”

Ygraine smiled at her but still looked chafed.

Vivienne agreed with Nimueh.

“It will pass,” she murmured. She kissed the ring she was wearing on her forefinger and took it off. As she threw it in the silver well, she watched the water gurgling and shifting from blue to gold, from gold to red, and from red to blue again.

Vivienne let out a heavy-hearted sigh and gazed back at her fellow queens.

“Shall we?”

Nimueh and Ygraine nodded. Together they left the small clearing where the well stood, vanishing into thin air as they walked, only to reappear an instant later in the vast and shadowed throne hall of Avalon.

They took place on their seats: the gold throne for the Rosemary Queen, the silver one for the Crown of Thyme, and the iron throne for Nimueh of the Hemlock.

Two dead shadows glimmered in front of the queens. They were ghosts made up of grey and green light, shining dimly in the dusk of the evening. While the first spirit was standing proudly and free, the second one was weighed down by chains of silver, iron and gold, one heavy bond from each queen.

To that ghost the Crowns of Avalon spoke first.

It didn’t escape Ygraine that Vivienne was keeping her head down, breathing slowly in and out, avoiding to look at the dead spirits.

The voice of Nimueh roared clear and imperious like a thunder, filling the air in the hall.

“Morgause of Tintagel, you stand here at the presence of the Three Crowns to be tried for your sins against Avalon.”

The shadow who was once Morgause struggled against her chains and bellowed scornfully, “I’ve never sinned against Avalon, I worked to protect it and its kind!”

Nimueh scowled.

“Avalon will not stand your lies. Do you deny trying to summon the spirit of the Rosemary Queen for your own use?”

Morgause’s eyes widened in shock.

“I never knew lady Ygraine was one of the Queens,” she stuttered.

The Hemlock Queen scoffed, “Of course you didn’t. You have been dabbling with powers much greater than yours for years, Morgause. Do you deny trying  to summon the spirit of the Rosemary Queen?”

“No, I don’t,” she murmured, appalled.

“What did you do when you found the spirit of the Queen wouldn’t answer you call?”

Morgause kept silent.

“What did you do, child?” Ygraine intervened.

“I summoned a White Lady to take your shape and tell Arthur of your husband’s betrayal.”

“To tell him lies,” Nimueh corrected her.

“She died so that Arthur could be born! Uther knew that!” Morgause hissed.

Ygraine shook her head sadly.

“He knew someone was going to die. He never suspected it was going to be me.”

“But you did. I remember what my mother said: you knew you were going to die so that Uther could have his heir.”

Vivienne tensed next to Ygraine. She kept looking downwards, her long dark hair shadowing her face entirely. The Rosemary Queen noticed her distress and she averted Morgause’s attention, keeping the ghost focused on her and her alone.

“I knew I had to die so that my son could be born. My child was destined to become the Once and Future King but I would have given my life for him even if the prophecies had never mentioned him. I chose his life over mine.”

“And because of that Uther killed my people!”

“That he did, and even in death I suffered for it. They were my people too, Morgause.”

Nimueh clapped her hands, all stern and domineering.

“That was your first sin: you tried to bind a Queen to your will, and when you failed you still used her feigned form to deceit. That is blasphemy. Do you deny?”

“You know I cannot.”

“Yes or no, Morgause.”

“No.”

“So you admit your first sin.”

“I do. But I never knew Ygraine was the Rosemary Queen. Nor that _you_ were one of the Crowns too,” she added resentfully.

“You should have known the moment you couldn’t summon her. She was a Seer, if you couldn’t find her in Mag Mell, she could only be in Avalon,” Nimueh scolded her mercilessly. “Say, Morgause, did you use the Cup of Life to bestow immortality on the army of king Cenred and bind them to your will?”

“Yes.”

“Did you know that in so doing you would forever damn the soul of every soldier who drank from the Cup?”

“We needed an army.”

“Yes or no, Morgause,” Nimueh singsonged.

There was coldness in the Queen’s eyes, and the smile on her lips was just two steps away from cruel. “Only yes or no.”

Morgause trembled.

“Yes, I knew.”

Vivienne shuddered, her eyes still to the floor, and she grabbed the sides of her throne until her knuckles turned white.

“So you willfully damned thousands of souls, only to win yourself the throne of Camelot,” Nimueh smirked. “My, my. That would have been too much even for me.”

Morgause gritted her teeth.

“I did it for my sister!”

“Did you, now? Did Morgana ask you to do that? To blight an enormity of souls until the throne was hers?”

“She didn’t need to know the consequences.”

Nimueh tilted her head and eyed her meaningfully.

“I guessed so.”

Ygraine leaned forward.

“Do you understand what you did, Morgause?” she asked her. “You deprived the Triple Goddess of souls that were meant to be hers. Not only that, but you also bound them to you, a mortal soul yourself. That is heresy, my child.”

Morgause scowled and spat at her in anger, “I am not your child.”

“No, you are right,” Ygraine agreed with melancholy. “But I knew you as a child, and I cared for you a great deal. I still care for you.”

“Your sins took you too far out of redemption, Morgause,” Nimueh inferred. “I brought you to Mercia with me, I taught you all your magic when your mother couldn’t. But you strayed too far.”

“I followed your steps, Nimueh. You taught me to hate Uther, I only obeyed the hatred you put in my heart.”

Nimueh hissed, “I never taught you to curse souls! It is one thing to avenge the dead, Morgause, it is another to damn them further! You forsook the Goddess.”

“I did it for a good cause!” Morgause bellowed. In her fury she tried to move forwards, to spread her arms, but her chains clanked and clattered, holding her still.

The Hemlock Queen glared balefully.

“Is that how you answer to your third accusation?”

“I don’t know of what you’re accusing me,” she said defiantly.

Nimueh stood up and pointed her finger at Morgause.

“Did you, Morgause of Tintagel, wilfully offer your soul to tear the Veil of the Underworld, letting the shadows of the dead roam free?”

“Yes. And I would do it again if that meant for Uther to die.”

“It would not. It would never mean that, because you were never destined to prevail. But what you did, my child, caused you to venture out even of your own path.”

Vivienne finally raised her head, and the silent tears wetting her cheeks glimmered like drops of crystal.

“Why? Why did you do it?” she whispered, her pain tangible.

Morgause stilled, shock carved into her grey face.

“ _Mother?_ ”

Vivienne nodded through her tears.

“Why you too?” Morgause breathed, confused. Crestfallen.

Why was she taking part in her trial, why was she betraying her. Why was she Queen while Morgause was no one.

Vivienne barely inhaled, shaking too violently to control her breath.

“You renounced your soul. You forsook the Triple Goddess on the altar of the Isle and you died with only violence in your heart. You are guilty of apostasy.”

Morgause’s tears mirrored her mother’s.

“I did it for Morgana,” she said. “She deserved that throne. Camelot had to burn for what they had done to her.”

“She deserved your love and your guidance. You should have taken care of your sister!” Vivienne cried.

“I did! I took care of her when no one would!”

“You twisted what little pureness she had left! You passed your hatred onto her and then you left her alone. For what, Morgause? Revenge? There was no one left to avenge. Uther was already broken.”

“He was still alive,” Morgause replied defiantly.

“You were too. You had every chance until you were still alive, but you relinquished it,” Vivienne told her. “You are Nimueh’s heir, as Morgana is mine. You should have been crowned in this life.”

Nimueh walked down the dais where the thrones stood and positioned herself in front of Morgause.

“You have been found thrice guilty against the Crowns of Avalon and the Triple Goddess, and thrice you admitted your crimes. Blasphemy, heresy, apostasy. You forswore, you desecrated, you disavowed. Do you repent?”

“Would it change anything?”

“Yes or no, Morgause!” Nimueh snarled and she pulled her iron chains.

The shadow wavered, and Nimueh repeated her question.

“Do you repent, or not? Is there any shred of regret in you?”

“Is there any in you?”

Ygraine faced the firstborn daughter of the Thyme Queen.

“We have already faced our regrets, Morgause,” she said mournfully. “And we have won our sorrows so that we could wear our crowns worthily.”

“Have you, really? Even you, mother?”

Morgause gazed at Vivienne with such betrayal in her eyes that the Thyme Queen couldn’t help her tears from streaming again.

“Yes. Although mistakenly, we did in our life what we thought to be best. Nimueh and I were the most misled, but we have learned since then. We have seen the error of our ways. Now, will you, daughter? Will you see?”

Morgause’s visage was marble-like, the greys and greens of her face illuminating her gaze ghastly.

“I see nothing, mother. I’m in the dark,” she flatly answered. She turned to Nimueh with an angry scowl.

“I am full of regret, for everything I wasn’t strong enough to do and for leaving to my sister something I should have done myself. I regret that, and I won’t repent of trying to do what was necessary.”

Vivienne moaned faintly and Ygraine immediately held her hand.

For the first time, the Hemlock Queen let her disappointment transpire freely.

“Then you condemn yourself, and my throne too.”

Morgause only frowned, not understanding her old teacher’s words.

“I did nothing to you.”

Nimueh sneered bitterly, “Don’t you see, Morgause? You were supposed to be my heir.”

She moved her arm in a gesture that embraced herself and the two Crowns sitting on their thrones. “We are the Queens of Avalon, but we are the vestiges of a time that is growing old, and that will eventually die. Our successors will receive the throne from us and bring new harmony to magic, but all this is now to pass without the Hemlock. Once the Rosemary and the Thyme are crowned, the Hemlock will cease to exist because you lost yourself. Dark magic, our magic, will die out.”

Morgause shook her head sceptically and laughed, “It’s impossible. There is light and dark to everything. Dark magic cannot vanish.”

“But it will. I’m sorry, Morgause.”

Nimueh grabbed the metal chains in her hands and pulled, but not in the ghost’s direction. She pulled them towards the opposite side, where the rings were buried in the ground.

Morgause froze.

“What are you doing?”

“Can’t you guess, child? You relinquished your soul, after all. You should know what comes next.”

Nimueh pulled again.

It was when a ghastly growl echoed in the throne hall and Vivienne began crying loudly that Morgause understood.

She screamed when the huge Cwn Annwn appeared at the other end of her chains.

“Be glad, Morgause. Because of your doing, one day the Black Dog will disappear too, but not yet. Today he is still alive and he has come for you.”

The beast sprinted forward and Ygraine forced Vivienne to hide her face against her breast, shielding her from the view of the creature sinking his fangs in her daughter’s spirit. She couldn’t shield her from the screams, though.

Ygraine closed her eyes too, breathing heavily. Only Nimueh stood watch, hard and impassive as the Cwn Annwn tore the air with his paws, opening a dark breach towards the grimmest corners of the Otherworld, where it would butcher Morgause’s soul and devour it until nothing was left.

Morgause shrieked gruesomely from the top of her lungs while the Dog dragged her along into the hole, the noise so horrendous it caused the very walls of the throne hall to tremble.

Vivienne wailed and Ygraine held her closer. Nimueh stayed put. Pale. Cold. Even after the breach closed itself behind the Cwn Annwn and its prey, she thought she could still hear Morgause screaming, but only Vivienne’s sobs were filling the silence left by her daughter’s cries.

“Toughen up, Vivienne,” the Hemlock Queen said pitilessly. Although she caught the trembling in her own voice, she pretended to be calm, “We are not done yet.”

Ygraine reprimanded her, “Give her a moment, Nimueh.”

“We all knew how this was going to end.”

“It doesn’t make it any easier.”

Vivienne breathed in and out unevenly but she slowly regained her composure. Her eyes were red with tears and when she tried to speak only a croaking sound escaped her throat.

Ygraine took pity on her. She caressed Vivienne’s hair and made soothing sounds.

“Don’t. It’s all right, my friend. There’s no need to talk.”

“No, there’s not,” Nimueh agreed.

She glanced towards the other ghost, and her grin chilled the wilting shadow like little else had ever done during his life.

“You won’t be as troublesome, will you?”

The spirit steadied his stance, trying to look as dignified as possible after witnessing the harrowing of a soul like him.

“Am I to be tried as well?”

“As a matter of fact, no. Your judgement has already been passed, sir Lancelot.”

The man squared his shoulders and nodded deferentially, bracing himself.

“What is the verdict, my lady?”

Nimueh smirked.

“Why, worthy of course, if there ever was anyone who could be.”

She laughed and turned her back to him to sit on her throne again. She toyed with the iron bells in her crown, making them jingle. With her other hand, she nonchalantly took Vivienne’s wrist and offered a comforting squeeze, letting go of her before her friend could return it.

“Do you understand what Merlin did?”

Lancelot nodded a second time.

“He purified the Isle of the Blessed.”

“Indeed. And in so doing he enabled us to retrieve your twice-lost soul. The Cailleach cannot refuse an order from Avalon, but the circumstances of both your deaths put an obstacle between us and the will of the Goddess. I hope you comprehend how grateful you should be.”

“I am, my lady. Thank you for saving me.”

Nimueh rolled her eyes and grimaced, vexed.

“Don’t thank us. It is mostly Merlin’s merit.”

The annoyance in her voice made Lancelot smile.

Lady Ygraine addressed him sweetly. He thought he could see something of Arthur’s nobility in her softness, like in a purer and tenderer version of his king. Listening to her felt almost like hearing her son speak again.

“Your lineage marked you as one of Avalon’s chosen children, Lancelot. But your sacrifice, while very noble, pushed you far from our Gates. It was Merlin’s magic that realigned Avalon with the Isle of the Blessed. Without his help, even our efforts would have been void.”

Lancelot frowned, puzzled. “I’m sorry, but I fear I do not understand you. I was born in a poor family, I was a simple commoner before your son knighted me. My lineage is low at best.”

Ygraine smiled knowingly.

“You have never met your mother, sir Lancelot, have you? Your father told you she had died in childbirth.”

“Yes, my lady. But what of it?”

Vivienne raised her still swollen eyes at last, and she murmured faintly, “Your mother was Elaine of Astolat, the first Lady of the Lake.”

Ygraine frowned gloomily and explained, “Water nymphs aren’t strong enough to carry a human child and survive, but she gave her life happily, knowing what a great man you would become one day. She loved you with all her heart, as I loved Arthur.”

“My father never told me that.”

The Thyme Queen tried to smile despite her stinging anguish.

“He sought to protect you. You were the son of a nymph, born in Camelot when magic was outlawed. But now that time has ended and you will walk the earth of Avalon and take the place which you have rightfully earned.”

She turned and called for a slim figure standing behind the thrones. Lancelot had not noticed her presence until that moment.

“Come, Nyneve. Our knight needs your blessing.”

A lithe, charming girl came forth. Her long dark hair caressed her hips, and her pale blue dress fluttered at every step, waving around her legs with the same weightlessness of water foam.

She smiled confidently and proffered her open hand.

“Take my hand, knight of Camelot.”

“I’m just a shadow, my lady,” he apologised. “I can’t touch anything.”

“You only need to trust me. I’ll do the rest.”

Her dark eyes were shining with emotion and they reminded Lancelot of Guinevere in their sincerity. But first and foremost, they ignited something in his heart, like a long-lost memory. He thought of warm smiles and of a lilting voice singing old lullabies.

He reached out his hand and managed to touch her fingers.

He was so shocked when he felt her holding him back that he almost withdrew, but the girl promptly grabbed his wrist and _pulled_.

Lancelot was forced to take a step towards her, pushed forward by her strong grip. When his foot hit the ground he felt the weight in his muscles and heard the noises in his ears. It wasn’t the distant, everlasting buzzing that had accompanied him since death: he could make out birds chirping, crows cawing, and crickets chirruping. He smelled scents, he could see colours in all their vividness again, bared of any blurred greyness.

His body was flesh.

Nyneve laughed, proud and honest.

“Welcome home, sir Lancelot du Lac.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Piece of information: Mag Mell is one of the names of the Celtic Otherworld and the Cwn Annwn is basically the Welsh version of the Grim, which I suppose you all know of because of Harry Potter. The White Ladies are a ghostly figure common to many folklores. They are the vindictive spirits of women who were killed by men and/or deserted by their lovers, sometimes they're spirits of women who died giving birth. So you could see why in my fan fiction Morgause would appeal to a White Lady.  
> Further piece of information: legend says Avalon has nine queens, and among them figure Vivian (the Lady of the Lake/Merlin’s lover), Morgana and Morgause. However, the Lady of the Lake has so many names, sometimes she’s Vivian, sometimes Nimuë, Nyneve, Ninnine and so on.  
> The tv-show has already one Lady of the Lake (Freya), and Vivienne and Nimueh are two separate characters, who are luckily from the same generation and so is Ygraine who, in the canonical legends is the biological mother of Morgana, Morgause and Arthur. Nine queens felt too many for this fan fiction, so I cut it down to three, mostly because three were the women who retrieved Arthur’s body and took it to Avalon: his sisters Morgana, Morgause and Elaine (sometimes named Vivian. Yes, my headache is worsening too.)  
> Rosemary, thyme and hemlock, the symbology is all mine: rosemary is an herb with huge beneficial aspects, both medical and magical, so I chose it for the “good” queen of Avalon, Ygraine. Thyme, on the other hand, was said to attract fairies (not good) but it was also necessary to brew potions that enabled people to see the fairies (good, ish?) so there you have the “neutral” queen, Vivienne. I don’t think there’s any need to explain hemlock.  
> Oh, about Lancelot: in the legends he is the son of some Lady of the Lake called Elain(e). The Elaine of Astolat is another whole character, mostly known as the Lady of Shalott. Since they are both connected to Lancelot I just thought, hell, why not? This show was already crazy enough, and I may have a soft spot for tragic, magical parents.


	2. Strength

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Second chapter and I'm already late on the posting schedule due to New Year's Eve hangover and stuff. This chapter, like the previous and the following one, is mostly introductory.  
> I’m still amazed at how this was supposed to be a plotless one-shot but it ended up being a multi-chaptered story with a whole chorus of characters and an almost plot. Because I still refuse to acknowledge this as a plot. Really, it’s just a really long multi-character development stirred by people saying and doing things.

Gwaine woke up, and the strange lady with the fluid voice was looking at him.

Ah, and there he thought it had all just been a dream.

He pretended to be still asleep. He couldn’t shake off the nagging feeling that he wouldn’t like waking up and talking, and discovering things.

The last vivid vision in his mind was the face of Percival crying, and then the sensation of his whole body going slack in his friend’s arms. That was where his memories got foggy, and really, he would have much preferred for it all to be a dream instead, because he was uncannily sure that having a sylphlike maiden holding his hand from the mists of unconsciousness and dragging him underwater, only to find himself on the grassy shore of some lake afterwards… well, that could pretty much mean he was dead, and he didn’t like the idea in the slightest. He loved being alive. So back to sleep it was.

“I know you’re awake.”

Well, fuck.

He heard her giggling.

“The water is rippling. You’re thinking so hard it is affecting the lake.”

“That’s not possible.”

“It actually is.”

He dropped all pretences and opened his eyes. She laughed and held out a hand for him to take. She smiled gently when he took it and he stood on his feet. She seemed to know he would feel dizzy because she waited for a moment before letting go.

“Welcome to Avalon, Gwaine.”

“Thank you, I suppose?”

She smiled again, warm and kind, and Gwaine felt the smallest flicker of peace drifting from his heart.

He looked around to gather his surroundings: he could see the water of the lake spreading for half a mile, sparkling in gold and silver where the sun touched its surface, before the wall of fog enveloped everything, hiding the sky as much as the horizon. On the shore, trees grew tall and wild, branches intertwined in various shades of green and brown and grey. And then, beyond the thick barrier of bark, leaves, and bushes, a tower stood, high and imposing. Gwaine couldn’t even see its pinnacle, lost as it was in the middle of the clouds.

It would have been peaceful, beautiful almost, hadn’t it been for its unnatural stillness.

“I’ll take a guess here and say I’m dead,” he declared casually, passing his hand through his hair. “But this place looks too much above for being an _Under_ -world. You said Avalon, yes?”

The lady nodded.

“Yes. It’s a place for healing.”

He smirked sceptically. “What good is healing when you’re dead?”

“More than you would imagine. It may seem odd now, but you will understand with time.”

“Ah yes, I guess I’ll have much of that on my hands now.”

She smiled again, amused.

“Kind of. But it is still less than what you may think.”

“Is there an expiration to this afterlife thing?”

“Not exactly. You will see, in due–“

“Please, don’t say ‘time’.”

The lady’s smile grew even bigger.

“I like you. It will be fun to have you around.”

Gwaine shrugged noncommittally.

He felt some kind of pull, an inkling in the back of his head, which urged to move forwards, to take a step towards the tower. He knew, somewhere deep inside of him, that inside that building there was something he was meant to see. Someone he was meant to meet. Yet, he stopped immediately.

“Tell me, my lady, my friends…”

“They miss you.”

And if they did, that meant they were alive. He laughed, relieved.

“You bet. With that stick Arthur and Leon try to put up everyone’s arse, life will be so much duller without me in Camelot.”

The lady took his hand and shook her head.

“Not Arthur, Gwaine.”

He faltered. Clearly, he had misunderstood. Clearly.

He turned to face her.

“What?”

“Not Arthur. He didn’t survive Camlann. It wasn’t his fate.”

Gwaine felt his insides churning and something hot and vicious gnawed at his heart. It got to his head.

“What are you talking about? His fate is to be king. Our king!” he growled.

“And he has been,” the lady explained calmly, completely unfazed by his temper. “He has planted the seeds for the Albion that was promised, a land to which Guinevere will tend, and she will make it prosper and grow, and Arthur’s name will never be forgotten. As won’t that of his knights or yours.”

“I don’t care for my name!”

“I know.”

She tried to placate him. She failed. She failed because he had failed first.

It all came back like a flood: he hadn’t been able to resist Morgana’s torture, and while he had died with the burning hope that the witch wouldn’t make it to his king, Gwaine was now useless and dead, knowing that, in fact, Morgana had. Because there was no other way Merlin would have let Arthur die: it had to be Morgana’s doing. It had to be his fault.

He had misjudged everything from the start.

Gwaine suddenly found breathing to be difficult. He tried to gather and spit out the words that were thronging around his lips. He couldn’t.

The lady put a hand on his shoulder. Her touch was so delicate he almost didn’t perceive it.

What a fragile little thing she was. And to think that her grasp had felt so strong and reassuring when she had drawn him out of the fogs of death, to take him to Avalon. To take him where Arthur should have been. Where Arthur should have healed. Arthur, not him.

“Gwaine…”

“I… I don’t even know what to call you,” he whispered, deliberately interrupting her.

The lady looked melancholic. Gwaine thought he could sense something scattering behind her eyes.

“I used to be Freya, once. They call me Nyneve now.”

“Which should I use then?”

“For you, I’ll answer to both.”

 

  

  

* * *

 

 

  

Gwaine never made it to the tower. He knew people were there. He knew Arthur was there. He had no idea how, but he knew. And he couldn’t face him.

So there was Gwaine, the peerless swordsman, the Maidens’ Knight, protector of the defenceless, tavern braggart, failure to Camelot and disappointment to his king. He stood only a step away from the calm undertow of the lake, looking at the almost tangible wall of fog, waiting for who knows what, watching the gilded frame of nothingness and stillness.

His armour felt heavy on his shoulders, and yet he was reluctant to take it off. He felt like war wasn’t over, like something would come out of the bushes and bury a blade in his chest.

Sometimes he still felt the phantom pain of the Nathair burning him down to the very recesses of his soul. Mostly, it happened when Gwaine thought of Arthur and his death, of Arthur resting somewhere in that tower which Gwaine couldn’t bring himself to reach.

He found the scorching pain of the serpent’s bite to be a suitable punishment for betraying the trust of his king.

Every single time he was reminded of Morgana’s face, Gwaine wished he could die all over again, suffering a hundredfold. He wished he could bring her down with him, hold her and plant his nails in her clear, spiteful eyes. So she wouldn’t see Arthur. So she wouldn’t see anything.

Gwaine hadn’t been so full of rage and grief since the day of his father’s passing.

Freya appeared at his side, sitting on the shore with her legs close to her chest and her naked feet deep in the water.

“It wasn’t your fault, you know,” she said slowly, looking at the hidden horizon.

“Yes, it was.”

She made a sound which could have been a sigh as much as a bittersweet laugh.

“Arthur would have died anyway,” she told him. “It was his time. I know Merlin thought Avalon would heal him, but Avalon can only heal the soul. Some magic, Gwaine… some magic is just irreversible.”

“I should have fought,” he stubbornly replied.

“You couldn’t,” she calmly continued. “The Nathair is a creature of magic, created for the mere sake of making men and women crawl. Its venom does not affect the body, it devours your–”

“Your soul. I know.”

Freya looked at him.

“You do?”

“My mother used to scare me and my sister into behaving with tales of magic monsters.”

“How motherly,” the young lady commented.

Gwaine snorted. His nostalgic, bitter smirk was the closest he had got to a smile since the day he had reached Avalon.

“We were blasted pests. I still wonder how she didn’t hang us by our toes before our majority.”

“Probably because you ran away far earlier.”

Gwaine knitted his brow and glanced at Freya, disconcerted.

“How?” he only asked her.

Freya blushed timidly.

“I’m the keeper of this place and of the souls resting here. The water carries visions to my mind, and you have been spending a lot of time staring at the lake and thinking.”

“So have you.”

She nodded, searching once again the clouds of mist.

“I know I shouldn’t. My existence is forever bound to Avalon, and I am not to dwell upon the other shore. But sometimes I just cannot look away.”

She then whispered something so softly, with her hands covering her mouth and wistfulness in her dark eyes, that Gwaine almost didn’t catch her next words.

“ _His grief is too strong_.”

He grimaced, acrid guilt bothering his throat.

“Whose? Arthur’s?”

Freya barely blinked, her gaze focused on the shadows hidden by the mist.

“Merlin’s. He has entrusted me with Arthur, knowing I’ll keep him safe until the time comes again. But now Merlin is suffering and I can’t do anything for him. I can only wait. Wait for the tide to rise.”

She sighed, distraught, “But that won’t happen until a thousand years and more have passed.”

Gwaine frowned and finally sat by her side. He didn’t ask her how she knew Merlin. He figured she would tell him later. Or maybe never, but that was her decision to make.

“That long?”

She silently nodded.

He put a consoling hand on her shoulder, and Freya rested her head against his arm.

They kept still. Watching. Waiting.

 

 

  

* * *

 

 

   

One transparent morning, Freya told him Arthur was awake.

“Good for him,” he said.

He went to spar in the middle of the woods, thrashing his sword against the trees until his arms were sore and he couldn’t hold the heavy hilt in his hands anymore.

He fell on his knees and rested his forehead against the wet grass.

He wished he hadn’t ventured so far from the water.

 

  

 

* * *

 

 

 

Gwaine couldn’t stand Freya’s presence anymore.

There was something about her, in her eyes, which troubled him.

She was constantly by his side, looking at him, telling him he needed to let go of his anger. Telling him he needed to heal. He had told her again and again that he had nothing left to be healed.

Most of the time, Gwaine knew she was right. Truly, he did. He knew that his regret was turning him into a festering shadow and that there was no way he could have resisted the bite of a Nathair.

He had suffered for hours, screaming until his throat was sore and his chest hurt. He had fought the hardest he could against the bleeding hallucinations and then even more before giving in. He had torn his sanity in one last attempt to resist to fangs and claws, and he had let something else sink with teeth and nails into his bare throat.

But Arthur had died anyway, and the hollowness inside of Gwaine’s chest spoke too much of the day his father had passed away.

He was reminded again and again of the horrid appearance of his father’s corpse when the knights of Caerleon had taken him back. They had taken him to the castle, not home. Not home, where Gwaine’s mother was waiting for her husband, praying and counting the days until she could hold him again. They had taken him to the castle, and young Gwaine had been there because he had wanted to see the knights training in the garrison. He had wanted to learn, to become like them, like his stern-looking and noble father.

That was how it happened that a ten-year-old child had seen the congested face of his parent, the corpse missing one hand and smelling of death and rotten things.

Later, the knights had casually found Gwaine in the stables. They hadn’t been actively searching for him, they had just stumbled upon the newly-orphaned child of their captain. They had put him on a horse and told him to go home.

Gwaine hadn’t cried. He hadn’t cried, but his mother had: she had done nothing but crying, for weeks. Then the weeks had grown into months, the money had become scarce, and his mother had set out to see the king Caerleon.

She had come back a week later crying even more, and that had been the day when all Gwaine’s grief had turned into anger and blind contempt. And he had left, fed up with kings and knights and with his sister’s complaints because she needed to clean the house herself since they were now too poor to keep servants. He was fed up with her blaming of their mother’s weakness. He was fed up with his mother’s lack of reaction. Her lack of strength.

So his life had withered into a frenzy of brawls and pickpocketing and other things he had done when he was truly desperate for food and shelter. Things Gwaine had learned to do and others that he had actually learned to like, because he couldn’t afford the chance to look at himself in the mirror and admit that he was disgusted with everyone and everything.

So he knew. He knew his soul needed healing in every corner, that it was nearly gangrenous, but he couldn’t bring himself to admit it because he had thought the Round Table had healed him enough.

He had found a home there, in rotten Camelot, and friends he had loved more than his family, who _were_ his family. He had met a still crownless king who had made Gwaine believe that not everything was lost and hopeless. He had later bowed and knelt to that king, rejoicing proudly on the day of his coronation.

The king is dead, _long live the king_.

Gwaine had sensed himself healing, even if only by halves, but now that Arthur was dead and Merlin was far away, the distance of an entire era between them, it was easier to blame himself for deserting his second home like he had deserted the first one. Because if he could blame himself, then he could still find some sense in the damned world.

“Why are you so obsessed with me?” he angrily blurted out one day.

“I’m not obsessed with you!” Freya yelled back.

“Oh yeah? So you’re telling me you spend as much time with me as with the other wretched souls?”

“I…”

He saw the blush heating her cheeks. It looked strange: all those – days? Months? _Years_? – times he had talked to her and had been in her presence, Gwaine had never seen Freya display such a human reaction.

Blushing was for the living people, not for the dead and certainly not for… what was the Lady of the Lake, actually? A ghost, a nymph, a spirit of the nature? He didn’t really know and he hadn’t truly cared up until that moment.

“I care for you,” she murmured.

Her voice sounded like water rippling in a crystal cave.

Definitely a spirit. A water nymph, maybe. Surely.

Gwaine barked an empty laugh.

“And why is that? I’m sure I never did anything to earn your care, so you shouldn’t waste it on someone who doesn’t deserve it.”

If possible, Freya’s white face paled even more, any hint of blush vanishing, and she hesitated, words on the tip of her tongue.

“It’s because we’re family.”

Gwaine scorned her, “I had a family once. Never had even a cousin like you. I would remember it.”

He remembered all of them. Even after all those years, he still couldn’t erase the face of any of his relatives from his memory. He would have been glad to do it, but he desperately remembered that his toad of a sister had the same nose of princess Elena, that Leon and his father shared a very strange curve in their mouth when they laughed, and that, yes, his mother’s eyes were like Freya’s. Like his. Lancelot had the same skin tone of his uncle, the one who had died during the Purge when Gwaine was four, and that one crooked finger of Gaius also reminded him of his sister. He had wondered once if the old physician too had fallen off a horse in his childhood or if it was just a petty coincidence.

Gwaine remembered his aunt and he could tell all the similarities she held with Morgana by heart. They had even died in the same way.

Freya sucked her lips, and she tormentedly said, “You’re my brother.”

Gwaine hissed, “Come again?”

He hadn’t meant to sound intimidating, yet Freya backed away, momentarily scared.

Well, that spoke volumes about how much he deserved healing, didn’t it? He had frightened his bloody keeper.

She should have gone and left Gwaine to his demons.

But Freya didn’t leave. She faced him with her chin held high and compassion in her eyes.

“Anna was my mother too.”

“You must be wrong.”

“I have seen your memories in the water. It’s her, it’s my mother.”

Gwaine froze.

Against his better judgment, he believed her. There was no point in lying, was there? Moreover, if he had trusted Freya enough to accept her hand and let her take him from who knows what to who knows where, then believing in her confession hardly classified as a leap of faith.

As she told him, Gwaine found himself spotting just some other little similarities between Freya and his mother, between her and his aunt and his older sister. He was just so used to recognising bits and pieces of his family in other people that he hadn’t really given it any thought in a long time.

The idea of having another sibling left him mostly unfazed, or so Gwaine told himself. The Lady of the Lake could be his sister, but that didn’t change things. Arthur was still dead and he was still seeing Morgana’s empty smirk each time he closed his eyes.

He realised he had never asked Freya how she had become the keeper of Avalon.

He knew next to nothing about her. His only certainty was that she cared too much.

Gwaine rubbed his hand on his face, trying to gather his thoughts.

“I can’t deserve salvation just because I’m your brother,” he tried to tell her.

“No, not because of that,” Freya agreed.

She pressed her palm to his cheek, and she was soft and serene again. Just like the spirit she was.

“You deserve it because you’re a good man. You served your king, you helped your friends. You were loyal until the very end,” she said.

He took her hand away from his face, but he didn’t let go of it. No. Out of need, of gut instinct, Gwaine intertwined his fingers with hers as he looked her in the eye, pain gurgling in his voice.

“I didn’t make it to the end, Freya. I failed.”

Freya replied with the same amount of stubbornness, “You bought them time, Gwaine. There was nothing more that could be done.”

He cackled, bordering hysterical, and he let go of her hand.

“Time. You keep saying it: time. It’s life that is important, not time, and Arthur lost his because of me!”

“Time is part of life, of course it’s important! We are here, suspended, not aging, not growing, because we are dead. The only moment when time is relevant is when you are alive. Avalon is without and outside of time. We can only exist, and we must heal, until the living reach a point when life can give us time again,” she exclaimed, closed fist beating on her heart.

Only one part of her speech reached Gwaine fully, though.

Something poisonous bit at his flesh and he sensed the air escaping from his lungs.

“We are dead? _We_?”

“Yes, Gwaine. We,” Freya answered tranquilly.

Gwaine blinked. He wasn’t sure why that detail impressed him so much. It wasn’t like he could regret Freya’s death, or grieve over it. He hadn’t known her long enough to grow attached to her or to care for her.

It still felt unfair. She looked so young. She must have died when she wasn’t even sixteen or barely so. It was sad.

“I’m sorry.”

Freya smiled demurely.

“Don’t be. It wasn’t your fault, nor anyone’s, for all that it matters. Maybe it was mine, but I don’t care. It brought me here and this is where I got peace. I just wish I could give the same to you.”

“To me, and all the other wretched souls.”

“They’re not wretched, Gwaine. Not even you.”

“You don’t know it.”

“In fact, I do.”

He sighed. All his previous anger ebbed away, and the sole thing he was left feeling was weariness, heavy and arid, draining him from within.

“I’m not ready, Freya,” he said, and he honestly hoped he didn’t sound too much like begging. He hated begging. He had once sworn he would never do it, no matter the cost.

“I understand. But you’ll have to forgive yourself one day.”

“Then it’s a good thing there’s no real sense of time here, isn’t it? I don’t have to care for any day.”

Freya snorted, disappointed.

“You’re hopeless, brother.”

She tasted tensely the word on her tongue, tentative and cautious. Hearing her call him so caused Gwaine an odd aching in his heart. He couldn’t remember the last time someone had called him’ brother’: with his sister Clarissant, it had always been childish nicknames and petty insults. ‘Brother’ had a whole strange feeling attached to it.

“And you’re too stubborn for your own good,” he wistfully complied.

He was tempted to add a ‘sister’ at the end, to be daring like Freya. She ought to have sensed it in that little pause around his mouth, though, because she smiled again.

He had seen her smile so many times. Smiling was like a second nature to her, but that smile was like her blush from earlier: it looked so much more human and alive than what she usually appeared. More than what he felt.

It warmed him a bit.

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

“Has mother ever told you of Nimueh?”

Gwaine didn’t know what had sparked that question. Or rather, he didn’t want to reflect too much on it. He told himself he was just curious.

“No. Mother kept all her relations a secret.”

“So you don’t know her.”

“In fact, I do.”

“Uh?” he let out a stupid sound.

“She’s the Hemlock Queen.”

Gwaine arched an eyebrow.

“Great. What would that mean?”

“I’m sorry, I thought you knew. You already know plenty of magic.”

“Still not a Druid, little sister. Just take for granted I know nothing, and most of the time you’ll be right.”

Freya chuckled. He was exaggerating, of course: he was decently informed about magical stuff and wicked troubles, but he liked to see Freya smile affectionately at him. That delicate tinge of exasperation made her look more carefree.

“The Isle of Avalon is ruled by three queens,” she explained. “One queen for the Hemlock, one for the Thyme and one for the Rosemary. They embody the three aspects of magic and the faces of the Triple Goddess: the Hemlock is the dark, the Rosemary is the light, and the Thyme is the grey that stands in-between. After her death, Avalon welcomed Nimueh and she received the Hemlock Crown.”

“You don’t say,” Gwaine murmured, ironic. He snorted and shrugged, shaking his head disbelievingly.

“I always knew her to be dark, but to literally win the crown…” he chortled, but it sounded empty and bitter. “I’ve heard stories of what she did, during Uther’s purges and afterwards. She didn’t use to be like that. She was good once. Or better, at least.”

Freya bit her lips, thoughtful.

“I know. She’s strong-willed and she can be fickle at times, but she’s not fuelled by rage anymore. Sometimes it’s hard to reconcile the notion of who she was in life with who she is now.”

Gwaine closed his fists and raised his eyes to the sky. There were huge, leaden clouds covering the sun, promising days of beating storms.

Good. He was tired of the seemingly endless sunny days. They were starting to feel fake.

“I think I can see what got her there,” he confessed under his breath.

It was too hard to say it out loud, to admit he could easily guess how a person had allowed herself to get that tainted with wrath and crime. But he had seen suffering, he had felt it himself. A man’s morality could be such a volatile thing sometimes and who was really to decide when justice turned into revenge and when revenge wasn’t just?

Freya was already one step ahead of him and prevented his next musings.

“It didn’t get you there,” she noticed, glancing at him sideways.

“I’ve never had magic,” he said dryly, as if that explained everything.

Freya wasn’t convinced.

“I had. It got me cursed. I never thirsted for revenge, though.”

Gwaine put a patronizing hand on her head and playfully ruffled her hair.

“That’s because you’re a good girl.”

Freya shrieked, annoyed, and she slapped his hand away. She eyed him pointedly.

“You’re a good man too. Even if you’re infuriating.”

“Sure,” he complied, laughing and nursing his hand. “You’re violent, you know? That hurt. I’m hurt.”

She squinted her eyes and frowned, undeterred by his deflection.

“I mean it, Gwaine. You’re a good man.”

“I wouldn’t know, Freya. I was halfway decent, I’ll give you that.”

“More than halfway, stop belittling yourself. I’ve seen your memories, you weren’t like this. What’s going on in your head that made you so…”

Gwaine glanced expectantly at her, genuinely curious to hear her opinion. “Come on, say it. _So_ what?”

Freya sighed, tentative.

“I would say defeated. But it’s not that, or not only that. It’s… you don’t trust yourself like you used to, right?”

He grimaced.

“Who knows. It’s not like anyone can trust me with anything now. We’ll never know.”

“If you think I’m letting this drop, you’re an idiot.”

Gwaine chortled, “Ah, it’s good to feel appreciated.”

“I’m serious, Gwaine. It’s my charge to help you face your regrets so you can let go of your past and move on. But you must help me, I can’t do it if you refuse to talk.”

“What would you have me say? I don’t even know what I regret more. That I didn’t kill Morgana? That I let her catch me and find out where Merlin was going? That I fell for Eira like a fool? I don’t know. Could be one, could be all. I can’t even make that out.”

Perhaps he was defeated. He definitely didn’t feel victorious, even if they had won the battle of Camlann and he knew that Camelot could only thrive under Gwen’s rule.

It couldn’t really feel like a victory if Arthur wasn’t there to see his kingdom finally at peace, if Merlin wasn’t standing behind his throne to grin widely at everyone.

Freya was staring fixedly at him, as if trying to weigh him, to assess him. She was so focused that her face was immobile, and even her breathing slowed. It gave Gwaine goosebumps, and it left him feeling suddenly bare and vulnerable. Freya wasn’t his sister in that moment, and he wasn’t her brother: she was the Lady of the Lake and he was one of the souls she sought to protect.

Before he could tell her to stop looking at him like that, Freya mumbled pensively.

“It’s not that. Or it is that, but it comes from somewhere else. You know what it is. You’ve known it all along!”

She looked at him in the eye, visibly cross. “You’ve been lying all this time. You know what your deepest regret it, you just refuse to think about it.”

Gwaine stiffened.

“I don’t know what you’re thinking Freya, but you can’t expect me–”

“Yes, I can!” she snapped. “I can expect you to pull your head out of the sand and face your fears. It’s why I was allowed to bring you here. Because Arthur will need you one day, because your place is forever by his side, but you can’t help anyone while you’re this broken. You _must_ heal.”

Gwaine sensed his frustration surfacing again. He had grown fond of Freya, he really had, but her righteous self-entitlement had a way of touching all his nerves. He tried to rein back his temper, but he couldn’t help his desolation from dripping from every word.

“I don’t deserve any healing, Freya. You have no idea of how I failed Camelot, you just don’t. I didn’t earn this place. You made a mistake.”

“I didn’t. Whatever you think you did, it wasn’t wrong. If only you could forgive–”

“This isn’t something you can forgive!” he cried out.

Freya startled and clenched her teeth, defensive.

He froze. He hadn’t meant to shout at her.

“Freya, I’m sorry, I didn’t–”

Gwaine took a step towards her, but his sister moved back.

“Freya…”

“Talk to Arthur,” she said in a flat voice.

His heart sank down to his stomach.

“You can’t ask me that.”

“Talk to Arthur, Gwaine. Please. If you want to apologise, then talk to him.”

He hesitated, but for every instant he kept silent, he could perceive a wall rising between him and Freya, and it scared him.

He had never imagined he could care so much for her. She was supposed to be just a girl, who, incidentally, was also family. He had never cared much for his older sister, he didn’t even miss her. He couldn’t understand what was about Freya that made him cherish her so dearly.

He capitulated.

“Fine. I’ll think about it, alright? Just don’t leave. I promise I’ll hear you. Don’t…”

Freya had never looked so sad before. The pity in her grimace rankled him.

“I’m not leaving, Gwaine. But I must help you and you must accept what is in your heart. It’s not weakness.”

“It’s treason.”

“The world isn’t only black and white, brother. There are grey spaces in-between.”

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

He still hadn’t ventured anywhere close to the tower. He knew Freya’s patience was thinning.

Gwaine considered himself lucky since they still hadn’t entered any shouting contest.

They spent time walking along the shores of the isle and exploring the woods. Gwaine found out he liked wandering through the thick bushes once he felt comfortable enough to discard his armour and chainmail.

He often took Freya by the hand, warning her of roots and such that might make her trip. It was pointless, he knew, because his nymph-sister moved gracefully and never lost her footing.

He kept doing it anyway.

“So, tell me, did mother scare you with the same horror tales she used with me?”

Freya clicked her tongue, dissenting.

“She used those tales to warn me, and mostly to teach me.”

“You were a well-behaved child,” he deduced.

“I was. And then, I was like her so I needed the knowledge.”

Freya showed him her arm and the meaningful mark tattooed above her wrist. The ink had faded, and now it looked more like a dark scar, marring her otherwise perfect skin.

“Right,” he sneered, mostly at himself. It was ridiculously easy to forget that his mother had been a Druid and that there was a reason if his family had pledged allegiance to an enemy of Uther Pendragon.

The first time he had met Arthur after discovering who the boy truly was, the urge to punch him in the face had been almost incontrollable.

“How did that even happen?”

Gwaine expected Freya to look at him quizzically. It was a bad habit of his, asking questions and blabbering about various matters while forgetting to complete his sentences. Most of the time, Gwaine left out huge parts of his speeches, jumping from a thing to the third next, and his fellow comrades and friends had just grown used to it: Gwaine hardly made sense when he spoke his thoughts out loud, and that was it. They thought it was fun and maybe that he was a bit of an idiot. Gwaine had always been fine with that. It made things easy.

Yet, Freya surprised him and answered him as if she knew exactly what he was talking about.

“I’m not sure, I just know what transpired from time to time, which was little. Mother was alone when she went to the Druids to find shelter. They welcomed her and then she met my father. She never talked about her life before us. I didn’t know I had any siblings until I retrieved you from the lake.”

“Do you know anything about our sister?”

Freya shook her head.

“If she’s alive, she keeps away from the water.”

“Perhaps it’s better this way.”

“Perhaps.”

They kept wandering quietly. At some point, they had mindlessly switched roles, and it was Gwaine now who followed Freya rather than the opposite. He should have suspected something was up because that was exactly what he would have done in Freya’s place.

He realised the shadow of the tower was over him only when he heard the bushes moving. And yes, he knew Avalon was perfectly safe, and even if it weren’t so, his little sister – dead like him and yet so alive, unlike him – would give total hell to anyone who would disrupt her peace. Yet, old habits die hard, so Gwaine reached for the sword he still insisted on carrying everywhere.

“Who’s there?” he inquired, threateningly.

Freya’s hand went immediately to his shoulder, and she urged him to quiet down.

“I’m sorry, brother, but you couldn’t keep putting this off.”

He sincerely wished her words would have left him clueless, but he had been living – existing – at Freya’s side for quite some time now and he got her meaning right off.

Nevertheless, he wasn’t ready for the voice that hit him like a punch in the gut.

“You know it’s highly uncourteous to make your king wait, do you? I should have you flogged.”

Arthur’s words were full of that arrogant mockery which had always characterised him, and Gwaine looked momentarily down at his feet, bracing himself before finding the courage to greet his friend.

He put on a plastered smile that didn’t reach his eyes.

“Last I heard, my arse of a king was gone. There’s a beautiful queen in Camelot now.”

Arthur laughed, all blue eyes and charismatic lordliness.

“I bet she’s got everyone wrapped around her little finger by now,” he boasted, gleaming with pride.

“Sure she has. I swear on the Goddess, she was way better than you at ruling.”

Arthur smiled fondly.

“That she is.”

And that was it. Gwaine had a moment to ask himself why he had been so afraid of facing his king again.

What had he thought, what had he feared? That Arthur would be gory and terrifying, and so _not_ him as his father had been? But his father was just a corpse on earth, of course he couldn’t look like himself, while there Arthur was made of energy and soul, standing tall and proud exactly as he had in life, all blond hair, broad shoulders and that infuriating way of looking at everything like he was the best damn thing in the whole world. He probably was.

Gwaine didn’t precisely know when Freya had disappeared, but he was infinitely grateful that his sister couldn’t see him when Arthur stepped closer and Gwaine ran and hugged his friend, holding him so tight it hurt.

His fists were shaking for the tenacity with which he was gripping Arthur’s shirt, and it was a good thing he was already dead, otherwise he would have died on the spot for the shame of the tears running down his face.

“I’m sorry, Arthur. I’m sorry I didn’t make it.”

Arthur held him back as tightly, and Gwaine felt even more like crumbling down.

“I know. It’s alright, Gwaine. It’s alright.”

“I’m sorry.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some due explaining: in the show Gwaine tells Merlin he didn’t know his father, but soon after that he talks about how his father used to treat his servants, only to swiftly correct himself by saying that it was actually how he imagined his father would act. Now, I have a soft spot for characters who guard their past even from their friends. I couldn’t resist the temptation of messing up a bit with that.  
> Second thing: Eoin Macken (the actor portraying Gwaine) has a sister named Freya. Again, I couldn’t resist the temptation, so that’s how Gwaine became the half-brother of our Lady of the Lake. Plus, Gwaine seemed to know a few things about magic and was rather accepting about it when compared to the other characters, so I could easily see him being related to someone who practiced magic. Who better than his mother, since the canonical legends picture Gwaine as Morgause’s son? Anna is actually how Morgause is named in some versions.  
> Third thing, I would bet my pants Gwaine knew Merlin had magic, and nothing would ever convince me of the contrary, not even if the writers, the producers and the whole cast would knock on my door and tell me he was totally oblivious.  
> Fourth (may it be with you), why all this baggage? Why all this angst and the totally, completely useless things that are screwing a lot with Gwaine’s characterisation? I sincerely don’t know. Ask the fucker, he did it all himself, I was merely a vessel. I never planned for him to be more than an orphaned smartass, but I do have a thing for “cripples and broken things” so I mutely complied.


	3. The Witch

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We are almost done with the introductory chapters. I promise. This is what happens when you need a whole isle of magic people to redeem a murderer and one idiot and a half.
> 
> Same old, same new: I'm not a native English speakerwriterwhatsoever, so if you spot mistakes you are actually invited to point them out, so I can correct them.

Morgana gasped for air and she brought both her hands to her wounds, body instincts kicking in before everything else. Her chest hurt, and if she brushed her fingers where Merlin’s sword had run her through, she could feel a grazing pain tormenting her.

She slowly noticed she wasn’t in the forest anymore. There was a soft mattress under her back, and the sunrays that lit the room enveloped everything in white and gold.

It took her a few moments to realise that she wasn’t in fact wounded, and that breathing wasn’t as arduous anymore. Yet, she knew she was dead. It was foresight, it was insight, it was sheer knowledge. It was the unnatural lightness in her aching limbs, the taste of the air in her lungs and how she couldn’t feel the blood throbbing in her veins anymore.

She breathed out tremulously and rubbed her fingertips where her wound ought to be.

“The scar will never fade. But it will stop hurting, eventually.”

Morgana gasped and looked up. There was a girl standing in front of her, waifish but also ethereal.  She looked extremely young, barely an adolescent, but her poise spoke of eternity and wisdom, and the air was crisp around her.

Something in her dark eyes made Morgana shiver.

“Who are you?” she asked, diffident.

The girl offered a composed smile. She sounded calm while also intense.

“I’m Nyneve, keeper of the souls.”

“Souls?”

“Yes, souls. You won’t be alone here, Morgana, unless you want to.”

Morgana gulped down a fearful whine.

“I don’t want to be alone,” she whispered.

She was tired of being alone. She wished Aithusa were with her. Morgana had grown so accustomed to the company of her dragon, she didn’t know how to exist without her. It was like missing a limb or her lungs. How could she breathe without Aithusa beside her?

Morgana was close to panicking, but the girl’s careful caress sobered her up. She squeezed Morgana’s arm delicately, reassuringly.

“Then you won’t be.”

Nyneve smiled and held out her hand. Morgana hesitated, stretching out hers only to move it back to her chest before she could hold Nyneve’s.

“Where are we?” she asked.

“Can’t you guess?” the girl questioned her back, always smiling, always serene.

Morgana shook her head disbelievingly.

“It cannot be.”

“Why not?”

She thought about it. Morgana didn’t want to say she didn’t deserve to be there, but she very much felt like it: she had tried her best to bring justice to all those who had been wronged by Uther and his allies just because they were born with magic, and she had come so very close to her goal, several times, only to fail at every attempt.

She had even had Arthur at her feet, weak, on the brink of death, and again she had failed to kill him.

Morgana didn’t want to contemplate how and why she hadn’t run him through with her dagger, why she had lost time speaking instead of acting. She hid her face in her hands and burst into tears.

Nyneve was quick to sit by her side and she held her gently.

“You’re not alone, Morgana. You’re not anymore. I promise.”

Morgana believed her, but she couldn’t stop crying, not after so many years of restraint.

She was dimly aware of Nyneve cradling her against her chest as she cried herself to sleep.

 

 

  

* * *

 

 

 

She had no idea how much time had passed when she woke up the second time. The sun was still tinging sweetly her whole surroundings in hues of orange and gold, but Morgana didn’t know if a whole day had gone by or if that was rather how things always appeared there.

She got up from her bed, staggering weakly as she walked to the bare window in front of her. There were neither frame nor curtains, just a squared hole that cut into the thick stone wall of the her rooms. Morgana rested her hands against the grey granite and looked outside.

Her chambers were placed somewhere high, and she could see a vast and lush forest extending almost as far as the coast of the island. Then the waters of the lake kissed the shore and spread beyond what her eyes could catch. A smoky wall of fog blocked her sight, shielding whatever might be hiding on the opposite side of the lake.

This time, the voice of her keeper didn’t startle her. She had almost expected her to be there at her awakening.

“You are better.”

Morgana nodded silently, still enjoying the view from her window.

“I should thank you, I think. It was you who led me here.”

“You remember?”

“Not really. Just fragments and shards. But I remember your hand in mine, and I clinging to it.”

Morgana finally turned to look at the girl, tilting her head slightly. Nyneve appeared even more evanescent than the last time, but her smile wasn’t any less warming.

“Because it was you, right?” Morgana asked, unable to suppress the smallest spark of hope in her voice.

She hungrily wished for Nyneve to be the one who had drawn her out of the darkness, but she had no way to tell. All that Morgana could remember was an oily and viscous obscurity creeping up from every corner and running over her, drowning her. She recalled trying to scream, but the darkness had been choking her, seeping in her throat. She had been certain she was going to disappear, to be forever dissolved in the darkness, until the comforting heat of a human touch had come, and Morgana had held on tight with all her strength, desperate to save herself.

Nyneve’s warmth had felt so much like the one from her saviour that Morgana was almost sure they were the same person. More than that, she wanted it to be true.

“It was.”

Morgana sighed, and she couldn’t contain her relief any longer.

“So it was right. What I did, even if I couldn’t, even if I didn’t succeed, I–”

Her keeper’s smile dimmed visibly.

“No, Morgana. That is not the reason why you were deemed worthy of Avalon. Quite the opposite, in fact.”

Morgana froze.

“What?”

“It wasn’t your war against Camelot that marked your worth: you were almost lost because of that. It was your regret that secured you this shelter. You cried for your father, and you–“

“You’re wrong!” Morgana blocked her, yelling.

A sad grimace contorted Nyneve’s pretty face, and Morgana saw something unbearable in her eyes: pity.

Morgana couldn’t stand pity.

“Oh, Morgana…”

“Uther deserved what he got. I’ve never regretted it.”

“You wouldn’t be here if you hadn’t. There’s no way of denying it. Your very presence in Avalon speaks for you.”

Morgana laughed, scornful, “You don’t understand. I can’t regret his death. My whole family died because of him: my mother, my father, my sister. Everyone I cared about, everything that mattered, he shattered it all. He fed me lies over lies. He betrayed me!”

“Yes, he lied to you, and he hurt you. Uther wronged many people in his life, he killed senselessly because he had gone mad with grief. But he truly loved you and even the measure of your own hatred is generated by the love you once bore for him.”

Morgana was shaking with fury.

“He had my mother killed! She had dared to defy him, and he had her killed! He killed all those people just because they had magic, he punished them for simply being who they were!”

“And how many innocents were harmed in your revolts, Morgana?” Nyneve retorted placidly, untouched by Morgana’s temper.

She stiffened.

She didn’t want to think about it. She had cautiously avoided walking in the streets of Camelot after her first conquest of the citadel, and she had played ignorant in front of the brutality of Helios’s men.

It was war, and casualties were to be expected. She knew that much.

“Any of them would have killed me, given the chance,” she said. “They were–”

“Innocent people, who died because you had lost sight of what was right and what wasn’t. And you knew. All along, you knew.”

Morgana shook her head. She could hear Morgause’s voice soothingly repeating her how she couldn’t trust anyone in Camelot, how even the last of the peasants would have turned her in immediately, had they known of their magic. And it was true. Everyone had betrayed her, even her dearest friends. Gwen. Arthur. Merlin.

Morgause was the only one who had ever been honest with her.

“You don’t understand.”

“I do. I know how it feels to be the prey, how hopeless everything can seem when you are utterly alone. It is so easy to go astray when you feel there are no other options left.”

Nyneve’s eyes were wet with unshed tears, and the passion in her voice wove a story of past sufferings and loneliness.

Morgana looked down and hugged herself, nails digging into her arms as she tried to keep herself from shaking.

“I couldn’t stop. I was so close. If only I could get the crown…” she faltered.

“What would you have done, then? How would you have made things different?”

Morgana fell silent. Her vision blurred, and hot tears streamed down her cheeks. She hated herself for that.

Tears were for weaklings. Tears were for the guilty. She had already cried more than enough. She didn’t want to cry.

She didn’t want to cry. She didn’t want to cry.

“My people were hunted like animals! Tortured and burnt at the stake for the crime of being born! They deserved justice,” she growled through gritted teeth.

“Yes, they did. But revenge and justice are not the same thing, Morgana. Justice is never so cold. It doesn’t cut you to pieces.”

Morgana met Nyneve’s eyes. She saw the scorching light of compassion in her gaze, its sadness and its innocence, and it hit her like a bucketful of icy water.

She remembered the people she had killed to punish the defiance of Leon and his men.

She stumbled and fell on her knees.

“You’re wrong. You’re wrong, tell me you’re wrong,” she begged.

“I can’t tell you that. You’ve already suffered enough lies in your life.”

“What did I do?” Morgana wailed.

Nyneve knelt in front of her and she took Morgana’s face in her hands, caressing her softly.

“You did what was wrong, thinking it to be right. But you saved yourself, Morgana. You regretted the pain you caused, and you saved yourself.”

“But I didn’t save them.”

“No, you didn’t, and their deaths will weigh you down until you learn to live with your guilt. And then, you will heal.”

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

Nyneve seemed to know by instinct when it was fine to press Morgana, and when it was better to leave her alone.

After their first shocking encounters, she gave Morgana some respite.

Morgana was starting to take a liking to Nyneve. While she knew she had been entrusted to the girl’s care – by whom, anyway? Not knowing it bothered Morgana to no end – she didn’t look to her as a guardian. Nyneve felt more like a companion. A confidante, even.

The next time they met, they played with magic: Morgana lit all the candles in her room and she commanded the flames to detach themselves from the wicks. She let the fire twirl and draw figures in the air while Nyneve summoned water drops to dance elegantly through the flames. Water and fire created little clouds of steam, and the two of them played with those too, shaping the thin mist into rampant horses and gossamer butterflies.

Morgana had never toyed with her powers like that. The moment she had discovered her magic she had tried to bury it down, then Morgause had arrived and from her, Morgana had learned how to fight. She had never thought magic could be anything but a weapon, a tool.

It was an odd feeling, learning things even while she was dead. She had naively believed that discovery was something solely reserved for the living. It was good to be wrong, sometimes.

There were days when Morgana indulged in a little fantasy of hers, where Morgause was still at her side, and Nyneve was their little sister, the three of them alive and mighty. They could have been queens. Even better: they could have been princesses, because queens had duties to fulfill and obligations to meet, and Morgana was so very tired of those.

She wished she could spend the rest of her eternity like that, playing with water and flames with Nyneve, forgetting about everything else.

She was a child who wanted for a home.

“After my sister died, I used to wake up every day wishing I could go back home,” Morgana murmured. “But I couldn’t. I had no home left, so I tried to win it back.”

Nyneve sat on the border of the window, swinging her legs. She was barefoot.

“Did it help you?”

“No. It kept me from falling,” Morgana said. “But only for a while. Then it hurt even more.”

She bit her lips, stifling a dejected sigh.

“I’ve never told anyone, I didn’t even let myself think about it. Why am I saying this to you?” she asked, letting her hands drop in her lap.

“It is part of my powers. I’ve already told you I’m the keeper of the souls of Avalon, this means I must be able not only to protect them but also to help them heal. You cannot heal your spirit if you refuse to acknowledge your wounds.”

Morgana wondered if her heart cracking could actually make a sound.

“So you’re using magic on me.”

Nyneve shook her head promptly.

“No, but sometimes my aura is enough to quell small sorrows. It’s like the water, see?”

The girl conjured a water drop on her fingertip to prove her point, “You look at me, and you think of the sea waves and of the flowing of streams, right?”

“Yes. It feels like that,” Morgana warily agreed. She forced herself to listen to Nyneve before feeling tricked. She wished so dearly for someone to trust, so she gave Nyneve a chance to explain.

Nyneve smiled tentatively, almost shy.

“When I died my soul became one with the lake of Avalon. I’m a water spirit now, and water heals. Even when I was human, empathy was always my strongest suit. It’s in my nature. Mother used to tell me I was going to become a great healer one day.”

Morgana’s heart broke all over again, but for a completely different reason.

“I’m sorry you didn’t get that chance.”

“I have it now. Awaking in Avalon was like being reborn to me. I used to be like you, you know?”

“How so?”

“I was a Druid before I got cursed. The curse gorged all my magic to keep itself alive, but I used to practice magic before that.”

Morgana frowned.

“Why were you cursed in the first place?”

Nyneve didn’t answer immediately. She seemed to be considering whether Morgana was ready or not to hear her words. Or maybe, she was deciding if she felt comfortable enough to tell Morgana her story.

“I killed a man,” Nyneve said flatly, and Morgana’s eyes went wide open, incredulous.

The young girl breathed in slowly before continuing.

“One day I was walking in the woods, heading home, and this man attacked me. I was too young to have a full grasp on my magic, so when I panicked my power lashed out. He hit his head and never got up again. When his mother found out, she cursed me to kill forevermore until the day I died too.”

Morgana felt outraged for her.

“But you had only defended yourself. She couldn’t blame you for that!”

“I had still provoked her son’s death,” Nyneve argued laconically. “I didn’t know it then, but in the past my aunt’s actions had caused that woman to lose all her loved ones. When even her son died, she went mad with grief. All she could see was my aunt’s reflection in me. We were on the same level for her.”

“But you weren’t the same person.”

“No. My aunt had never meant for that sorceress’s family to die, just like I didn’t mean to kill her son, but while she had acted fully knowing that consequences would arise, I just thought of defending myself and my mother. I thought, if I were to die, mother would probably be the one to find me dead. I didn’t want her to get anywhere close to that man.”

“You wanted to protect her,” Morgana understood.

Nyneve nodded.

“Yes. Much like Arthur wanted to protect Uther from you.”

Morgana stiffened.

“That was different. Arthur and Uther were against everything that was magic. They hunted people,” she explained coldly.

Nyneve wasn’t of the same advice, and she sucked her lips, stubbornly shaking her head.

“Uther did. Arthur only acted accordingly, and even then, he tried to do what he thought to be right. All his life he had been taught that magic was evil, but he helped you saving Mordred, and he harboured doubt in his heart. He was wary of people’s actions before he was wary of magic. And it is true magic can be very dangerous, depending on the people who practice it: the first sorceress he ever met was your sister, and she tricked him with his mother’s image. After Morgause, you revealed yourself as a witch and attacked Camelot. It was almost lucky he didn’t enact a second Purge, don’t you think?” she reasoned sensibly.

Morgana answered almost mechanically.

“Arthur would have killed me.”

“Would he? It was always you who attacked him first, like the sorceress’s son attacked me. And for what reason? For the remnants of Uther you saw in him.”

“He took what was mine.”

Even as she said that, Morgana could her voice trembling. Somewhere in the corners of her mind, Morgause was hissing words at her, reminding her how Camelot had wronged them both, how Arthur had never sided with Morgana against Uther. The Pendragons bore no love for her.

Except, it wasn’t entirely true, was it? In the past, Arthur had been by her side, more than once.

“Sons inherit, not daughters. You surely know it better than me, Morgana. Even if Uther had acknowledged you, it wouldn’t have changed a thing. Tintagel was yours by virtue of your mother, and no one ever tried to rob you of that.”

“Only of who I was,” Morgana whispered despondently.

Nyneve clicked her tongue.

“Are you sure it was them who did that?”

“Yes.”

Nyneve grimaced.

“Then you still have a long way to go, Morgana,” she said. “But it’s alright. I’m not giving up on you.”

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

All her life, Morgana had seen herself reflected in Uther’s and Arthur’s blue eyes, and somehow, she had always found her mirrored self to be lacking. Lacking bravery, lacking strength, cleverness.

She was bold and confident until the moment she met blue eyes. Then, a special kind of coldness, of dissatisfaction usually clawed right under her skin.

Uther was headstrong and callous where she was understanding and maternal. Arthur proved himself to be forgiving and sensible when Morgana was merciless and emotional. She never managed to meet their expectations.

But Nyneve’s eyes were dark brown and warm, and when her keeper looked at her, Morgana felt she didn’t need to live up to any standard. She could be honest and true to herself and Nyneve wouldn’t judge her, no matter the case.

Morgause’s eyes had been dark brown too.

The comparison never soothed Morgana as much as it should have. For remote reason, the memory of her sister left her uneasy on her good days, and downright useless on the others.

Nyneve had instilled thoughts in her head, doubts Morgana didn’t want to harbour. She would have called the girl manipulating, but Nyneve had never really tried to impose her ideas on Morgana. She limited herself to offering her perspectives, and then she usually left Morgana to muse on them and draw her own conclusions.

Their last meeting had upset her profoundly.

Morgana had spent days pacing in her rooms, thinking back to every time Arthur and Uther had quarrelled, and of the times they had agreed instead.

Her memories troubled her. They stirred feelings she had long buried and abandoned and she wasn’t ready to face them again.

And yet she remembered. She remembered how Uther used to set everything aside when she entered a room and how he struggled with himself so he could offer her the smiles she longed for. She remembered when Arthur and she were children and how they squabbled in the training field. Arthur used to pout for days when they fell out over petty things. They would reluctantly make peace and then go back to playing and bickering all over again.

She was drowning in all those fond memories, torn between conflicted feelings of affection, chagrin, and hatred, and the stone walls of her room had started to suffocate her, so Morgana had run down the stairs in haste, desperate for fresh air.

She had been walking for hours, entering deeper and deeper into the forest, until the trees were so thick and tall their branches formed a net which covered the sky wholly.

The vegetation didn’t make any sense: there were pines and firs but also oaks and rowans and birches. Earlier in the day, she had seen roses blossoming at the feet of the tower, climbing with thorns and brambles on the stone walls where ivy grew too.

Sometimes Morgana caught glimpses of animals running and hiding behind the bushes. Deer and hares, and hummingbirds and hooded crows, as varied and impossible as the plants. The nature of the island was like a fanciful illusion, too vivid and rich to be true. And yet it was: Avalon existed, it was real, and Morgana was there, and she was lost and confused.

She reached a small clearing at last, and she took off her boots and sat on the wet grass. She raised her head to watch the cloudy sky, so she didn’t see the dark-haired woman approaching her from behind.

“I didn’t hope you would leave the tower so soon.”

Morgana startled and turned quickly. She closed her fists, ready to strike with her magic whoever came close.

The lady chuckled and raised her hands, showing her empty palms.

“It’s alright, child. I am not here to harm you.”

“You couldn’t even if you tried,” Morgana threatened. She felt her fingers pulsing with restrained magic and she closed her fist tighter.

“It’s good to hear you so determined.”

The woman stepped forward and then paused. “Can I sit next to you?” she asked amiably.

Morgana eyed her suspiciously, but she consented. She didn’t feel endangered by the woman’s presence, but she was still ready to fight. Her skin _itched_ with magic.

The lady’s smile widened. She sat down with an elegant rustling of rich clothes, the fabric of her purple dress shimmering in the dim sunlight, and she giggled nervously as she placed her hands on her lap.

She was looking at her with expectant anticipation, but Morgana was clueless about her motives.

“Why are you surprised I’m not in the tower?”

The woman tilted her head, and the silver bells in her leaf crown tinkled.

“It’s rare to leave our waking place so early. I myself spent ten years wandering around the shores and these woods before I dared nearing the tower. I thought you might still need the safety of your chambers.”

“I couldn’t stay in there forever.”

“Precisely. I’m very proud of you, Morgana.”

Morgana frowned.

“Who are you?”

The woman offered her a frail smile.

“I am Vivienne, Queen of Thyme. I’m your mother.”

“Does this mean Morgause is here too?”

It wasn’t the right question to ask, Morgana saw it immediately in the lady’s pallor. Her mother’s pallor, she mused.

She had no recollection of her parent whatsoever. The woman at her side was a total stranger to her. And Morgana missed her family. She missed her sister.

“We tried to save her. She refused,” Vivienne uttered mournfully.

“I…” Morgana fell silent. Her eyes were burning disturbingly.

“Why?” she finally whispered.

Vivienne swallowed and held a strand of curls in her closed hand.

“Avalon is a place for healing, a source of peace. You can’t be allowed here if you aren’t ready to let go of your hatred and to atone for your sins. Morgause refused to do that,” the Thyme Queen sighed tremulously. “She was beyond salvation.”

It sounded like her sister, to be scornful and proud until the very end. Morgause had never regretted anything in life. It just wasn’t who she was.

“She didn’t need to be saved,” Morgana spat. “She could save herself on her own.”

“I wish that were the case, Morgana. But there are some things you cannot escape without help, and she didn’t accept  ours.”

“Of course she didn’t. She’s too headstrong.”

“She was.”

Morgana tried not take heed of Vivienne’s choice of words: she made it sound as if Morgause weren’t anymore, as if were was something past, whereas she would forever exist in Morgana’s mind.

“Why did you wait this long to meet me? Didn’t you want to see me before?”

“I was looking forward to seeing you again, my dear. The last time we were together, you were barely a babe. But you needed to adjust to Avalon, and I didn’t want to overwhelm you.”

“So why are you here now?”

“To tell you a story. You should know what happened years ago, how it all begun. Are you ready to know the truth, my dear daughter?”

Morgana simply nodded, not trusting her voice. Not exactly sure if she should trust Vivienne either. She didn’t like how she called her ‘daughter’. It didn’t feel right, it didn’t feel real.

“You know how lady Ygraine and I were friends from a tender age. Ygraine had been having visions since she was a child, so her mother had her trained in secret from the priestesses of the Old Religion. I met her in the Isle of the Blessed when I was maybe ten and we soon became friends. Then, when we were girls, Nimueh arrived.”

“The old High Priestess?”

“She wasn’t even Priestess yet. We were all very young, but the High Priestess of that time saw something in us. She kept us at the Isle of the Blessed so she could train us. Nimueh had the strongest magic between us, but Ygraine could see very far into the future. She used to be scared of her dreams. For years she dreamt of fire and people dying and she would come to my room at night and cry herself to sleep.”

Vivienne smiled sadly, “Nimueh always told her she didn’t need to be afraid because she would protect all of us from any fire.”

“You were close, the three of you.”

“Like sisters. But with time, life drove us apart: I married Gorlois and Ygraine married Uther, and Nimueh disappeared for years. When we heard of her again, she was the new High Priestess and there were already strange voices circulating about her. Then Gorlois and Uther met and became friends, so when Ygraine and I had the chance to meet, we found a way to bring Nimueh to court with us, and we were together again.”

Morgana sneered cynically, “But that didn’t last long, did it?”

“No, it didn’t. War broke out: the invaders were trying to conquer Cornwall, and my husband went to battle, leaving me alone at Camelot with Morgause. Ygraine tried to soothe me, but I had convinced myself Gorlois was going to die. I kept dreaming of him falling from his horse, of his enemies stabbing him to death.”

“That is how he died,” Morgana remembered.

She had been just a child, alone in a castle filled with servants who had been trying in vain to cheer up the daughter of their lord, but she missed her father too badly, and nothing would appease her.

“But it was ten years later,” she added.

Vivienne sighed, heavy-hearted.

“I didn’t know it at the time. My dreams were never as clear as Ygraine’s. I was desperate and for the first time, I hated my friend. I couldn’t stand to see her with Uther, I couldn’t bear to see her so happy when I thought I was alone. I believed myself to be already a widow when I lay with Uther.”

Morgana stiffened with contempt.

“You betrayed Ygraine.”

Vivienne nodded.

“I did, and I lost her because of that. She knew right away. Maybe she had always known, learned it through her dreams, and she was just waiting for it. When Gorlois came back from the war, the shame and the guilt were almost too much for me. I was about to kill myself.”

“Then why didn’t you?”

Vivienne’s tired grimace oozed remorse.

“It was Ygraine. She stopped me and then she ordered Nimueh to tend to me and to the life I was carrying within my womb.” She laughed bitterly, “I didn’t even know I was pregnant. The child was unmistakably Uther’s and yet Ygraine didn’t want me to die.”

Morgana didn’t hide her shock, “She saved you after what you did to her?”

“Yes. Despite everything, she was good to me, always the purest of the three. That was also the last time I saw her alive. I went back to Tintagel with my husband and Nimueh, and some months later you were born. Nimueh made it look like it was a premature delivery and no one ever suspected anything.”

“Uther knew, though.”

“Ygraine told him you were his when they saw they couldn’t conceive. She knew it was her fault, not Uther’s. They called back Nimueh and she used the Cup of Life on Ygraine so she could get pregnant.”

“Yes, at the cost of her own life,” Morgana snapped.

Vivienne agreed gravely, “At the cost of her own life.”

“Uther didn’t deserve such lengths of devotion. She should have refused.”

Vivienne looked at her with condescending benevolence. It irked Morgana.

“She didn’t do it for Uther. Ygraine did it for Arthur.”

Morgana snickered bitterly, “That’s nonsense. Why would she willingly give up her life for a son she would never meet?”

“Because she loved him, more than she ever loved anyone. I’ve told you already, Ygraine could see far into the future. She saw how angry and cold Uther would turn after her death, she had been dreaming of the Purge since her adolescence. But she also saw the man her son was going to be, and she started to love him years before he was even conceived.”

“Then why did she offer her own life? She could have sacrificed anyone else. Uther would have never outlawed magic if she were still alive.”

“Uther had always been wary of magic. He was suspicious of me and he barely tolerated Nimueh. He had no idea Ygraine had magic too. Something was bound to happen, no matter what. Ygraine knew that, but she died with hope in her heart because she also knew that one day Arthur would change everything. He is the king that was promised, the Once and Future King.”

Morgana snorted mockingly.

“All this fuss for a single person?”

“It was her son. I did the same for you.”

“I’ve never wanted people to sacrifice themselves for me,” Morgana gnarled.

She was enraged. No, maybe not enraged, but frustrated. There was an intruder in front of her who claimed to be her mother, and yes, looking at the lady Vivienne felt a bit like staring into an aging mirror, but the woman was no family to her. She was the Thyme Crown of Avalon. She was no one.

She wished Morgause were still alive. But she wasn’t. Morgause ‘was’ headstrong.

Morgana yearned for Nyneve’s allaying company.

“How did you die?”

“It was soon after Ygraine’s death. When Uther started the Purge, I took you and your sister with me and I fled to the Isle of the Blessed. I knew that Gorlois couldn’t hold Uther forever, that he would come for me, eventually. So Nimueh and I barricaded the Isle and we planned our counterattack. We fought him for months, but no matter what we did, we could never really beat Uther for good. Nimueh was forced to make her family leave and I began to fear for you and Morgause. So I arranged a meeting with Gorlois.”

“And he betrayed you,” Morgana deduced. She didn’t indulge too much in the notion. She couldn’t accept her father to be anything but perfect.

Vivienne denied, “No, my messenger did. He told Uther my plans and I got captured while I was riding to Tintagel with you and Morgause.”

“Why didn’t Gorlois rescue you?”

“Uther led an attack on the Isle of the Blessed that night. He told Gorlois that was where I got captured, and that I had never meant to go to Tintagel. He said I was just trying to trick him, to lure him away.”

“And he believed him?”

The Queen hummed, “Uther was his friend. And I was the witch who had taken his daughters away from him.”

“You should have fought. You should have talked to him, he would have believed you!”

Vivienne shook her head.

“Uther had you and your sister. While I knew he would never hurt his own daughter, I couldn’t anger him and risk Morgause’s life. I was sure Nimueh would come to save us, so I tried to be as docile as possible, to buy us time.”

“But Nimueh didn’t come.”

“She did, in fact. But Camelot was too well-guarded, and Uther never let you out of his sight.” Vivienne chuckled mirthlessly, “He was bound to protect you from your mother’s evilness. He executed me the day after Nimueh tried to set me free.”

Morgana was breathless.

“I can’t believe Gorlois didn’t fight for you. When I was little, he told me stories of you, he told me how much he loved you. He wasn’t lying.”

“He was a good man, Morgana. Too good for the person I had become. I killed many people because they stood between me and Uther. Maybe he would have even forgiven me for that, but I had left and taken his daughters with me. He was very protective of you and your sister. I went too far with that.”

“You should have told him the truth,” Morgana stubbornly replied.

“It would have been useless. If Gorlois had rebelled against Uther, it would have just brought more death. I had already wronged my husband too much, I didn’t want him to die for me. So when Nimueh came, I told her to find a way to take Morgause away from danger. I chose to die to quell part of Uther’s anger and secure your safety.”

Morgana got up. She wasn’t going to listen to any of that anymore.

She wanted to go back to Nyneve, she wanted to sift even the last corners of the world to find her sister and cry out to her how their mother didn’t deserve them or their devotion. She was just another person who had let them down.

Morgana’s eyes were burning and her hands were shaking.

“You left us alone. You deserted us like you deserted Ygraine.”

Vivienne grabbed her by the skirt of her dress, preventing her from leaving.

“I never meant for you to be alone. I entrusted Morgause to Nimueh because I knew she had the power to protect her from Uther, and I left you with your father because I knew he would take care of you.”

Vivienne had been cautious of calling Gorlois her father until that moment. For some reasons that Morgana didn’t fully grasp, it made her snap.

“He died when I was a child!” she shouted, pulling her dress out of Vivienne’s hold. “I was so young I can’t even remember his face anymore! He’s a just a voice in my head, like all the others!”

“I thought you would be safe. I thought he would be the one to see you grow.”

Morgana gritted her teeth and hissed, “You should have known. You had seen him die in your visions.”

“I didn’t trust my visions anymore. They had brought only pain.”

“Well, that’s too bad. I never ran from something only because it hurt,” Morgana whispered spitefully.

Vivienne hummed her assent.

“You are stronger than me.”

“But I still died alone, with everything I loved outside my grasp.”

Morgana shivered, and her voice broke.

“I died just like you.”

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

Morgana was sitting on her bed and crying when Nyneve found her. It seemed to her that crying was all she had been doing since she had reached Avalon.

Morgause would have never let her cry. Not for the things that were troubling her mind.

It was right to cry for their parents. For their mother, who like Morgana had been betrayed by everyone, even by their father. It was right to cry for all those who had died because of Uther. But then the crying had to come to a stop. They ought to act.

Morgana had tried to act, but it had been so hard, even with Aithusa at her side.

She didn’t even know if her dragon was still alive. She prayed for her sake.

Their mother had been the first to betray.

Nyneve knelt in front of her bed. She didn’t say anything, she simply looked at Morgana with that sympathetic kindness that was so unmistakably hers. It would have unnerved Morgana, hadn’t she needed it so desperately.

“I tried to break him,” she whispered softly, trembling like the cursed, fragile thing she was.

Nyneve didn’t ask who she was talking about. Morgana got a sense that, somehow, she already knew.

“Why?” Nyneve murmured back just as softly.

“Because only broken things can understand each other.”

“But why him?” Nyneve insisted delicately, passionately.

Morgana shrugged and looked at the empty space in front of her.

“I don’t know.”

“Morgana…”

She spoke hastily, mumbling half of her words incoherently, “He was different. There was something darker about him, not like them. And if I had broken him, I thought, like they had broken me, then maybe…”

She hesitated and looked at Nyneve with distant fear in her eyes. The girl took her hand and held it gently, encouraging her to go on. Morgana extracted enough air from her lungs to speak again, but she was already shaking her head, dismayed.

“But I was wrong. No one ever breaks in the same way.”

Nyneve nodded, her lips thinning in a worried grimace.

“What will you do now?”

Morgana hid her face behind her knees.

“I don’t know,” she whispered flatly.

She paused to breathe and closed her eyes, suddenly tired, worn out.

“I only wish I had been able to break him.”

She was unaware of the utter sadness colouring Nyneve’s face. She didn’t hear her sigh as she disappeared into the shadows of the day.

_“But you did.”_

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

Morgana learned to wait for Nyneve before venturing outside. She feared Vivienne would try to approach her again. The mere thought of the Thyme Queen made her sick, so Morgana was more than happy to avoid her mother until Hell itself froze over.

Nyneve understood her reticence and, Queen or not, she would keep Vivienne far from Morgana until she made up her mind about the Thyme Crown of Avalon.

One afternoon, Nyneve took her to a soft slope full of flowers just above the shore.

As a child, Morgana would have loved that spot: the small declivity was basically begging people to strip off their clothes and roll down into the water, tumbling between sprinkles and laughter.

But Morgana hadn’t been that carefree in decades, so she and Nyneve were only lying on the grass among the odorous flowers, hair spread on the ground like halos.

It was serene enough to feel peaceful, and Morgana was looking at the clouds, watching the figures they painted in the sky. She saw a child, a dog running from a flying dragon, a rose and a sun, a castle that turned into a winged carriage.

“What do you do when you are not with me?”

Nyneve lay comfortably on the ground, her arms crossed behind her head.

“I tend to the others who need me.”

“So I’m not the only wretched soul in Avalon.”

The girl gave her a strange, pointed look, but she smiled.

“No, you’re not. And lucky for you, I am fond of wretched souls.”

“Who else is here?”

“My brother, for example.”

“You have a brother?”

Nyneve hummed, “Yes. Your brother is here too.”

Morgana paled.

“Arthur? Arthur is here?”

“Yes.”

Morgana rose up on her elbows, panicked.

“Please, don’t–“

Nyneve calmed her down, “Don’t worry, Morgana. I know you are not ready.”

“Thank you.”

The girl shrugged.

“You never call him ‘half-brother’, do you? He’s your brother like Morgause is your sister.”

Morgana's stomach lurched, filled with bitter gall.

“I… never noticed.”

Nyneve smiled joyfully, “I did. You’ve stopped considering him an enemy. It means you’re doing it.”

“Doing what?”

Nyneve rolled onto her stomach, face resting on her closed fists and feet kicking in the air. Her smile was almost contagious.

“Recovering. You’re healing, even if you can’t sense it yet.”

Morgana didn’t feel much healed indeed. If anything, she was feeling only more spent and confused. Every conversation inevitably sent her already tottering touchstones trembling.

Arthur had been one of the few constants in her life: first, he’d been a playmate, then a friend, and lastly, an enemy. Always changing but always there.

Calling him ‘half’ anything would have been jarring at best. He was just Arthur, and addressing him in any other way would have always turned out to be purblind.

He was everything and nothing, and he was more family than what the Thyme Queen could ever hope to be, the kind of family who cannot understand your dark sides and that you hate, but also the kind of family you can never bring yourself to disavow.

If Arthur was half anything, he was half her past.

Morgana shuddered inwardly.

“Vivienne… my mother, she told me she is the Thyme Queen. Who are the Hemlock and the Rosemary?”

Nyneve played with her. She tilted her head right and then left.

“Take a guess.”

“It’s Nimueh and Ygraine, isn’t it?”

“Yes, they are the present Queens. They won’t be Crowns forever, though.”

“I thought the Crowns were immortal.”

“Yes and no. We are all just souls here, after all, and souls are almost impossible to kill. But the Crown is a title, and these Queens won’t hold theirs forever. Eventually, they will pass it to their heirs.”

“Who?”

Nyneve arched an eyebrow and simpered, “Think about it, Morgana.”

Morgana gaped, appalled, perhaps even a bit fearful.

“You are jesting. It cannot be.”

“We are their descendants, through blood or through magic. The Thyme Queen is your mother, and mine was Nimueh’s sister.”

If Morgana was surprised by Nyneve’s relation, the hinted meaning of her descent was only too abhorring to be conceived.

“No. You can’t be the next Hemlock Crown. That is not you.”

“Lineage isn’t the sole feature which marks us. I will inherit the Rosemary from Queen Ygraine, one day. As late as possible, I hope. Being the Lady of the Lake is already worrisome enough.”

“Then who is going to take Hemlock if not you?”

Nyneve’s smile turned rueful.

“It should have been your sister’s. She certainly had the soul for the Hemlock, but that is not going to happen anymore so the Hemlock Crown will simply wilt away along with dark magic.”

Morgana chilled.

“Morgause is truly gone then? Even her soul?”

“She had broken the laws of Avalon and Mag Mell several times, only repentance could have saved her.”

Morgana sank her fingers into the soft ground, clawing with her nails to stop her hands from trembling. Even if Vivienne hadn’t already told her, Morgana knew her sister too well.

“She refused.”

“I’m sorry. I know you loved her.”

The thought of her sister being eradicated from existence was too hard to absorb, and maybe that was partly why Morgana still wasn’t exploding, losing her sanity. Or maybe it was because Morgause had preferred to annihilate herself for the benefit of revenge instead of staying by Morgana’s side.

Eventually, her sister had proved to be yet another name in the endless list of people who had defected her.

She had been the umpteenth turned back in Morgana’s life.

“Can you tell me more about Nimueh? How did you make peace with being family with her?”

Nyneve sucked her lips, thinking carefully about her next words.

“At first, I was shocked when she told me she was my aunt. She used to have a reputation among the Druids and it wasn’t a good one. If she truly was my aunt, then I could see why all those years ago that man had wanted to kill me: hadn’t it been for her spells, Uther would have never started the Purge.”

“Did you hate her?”

“I was always bad at hating. So no, I didn’t hate her. We all had suffered because of the Purge, herself included. Her older brother was one of the first victims. She couldn’t save him, but she managed to make my mother and her family evade the Purge. She was beside herself when I died and she figured out who I was. Since then, she has been very kind to me in her own way. She forced me to see I deserved to be angry about my fate and she took her part of the blame. I used to be afraid of anger before I met her. She’s a stern teacher but she’s never let me feel alone. In the end, I’m just grateful.”

Morgana sighed, her brain buzzing with thoughts and disturbing emotions.

“I don’t understand you. You suffered so much in your life, how can you still be so kind? I would have turned mad in your place.” She paused, and after a moment of reflection, she added, “I turned mad. How did you stay pure?”

“Anger and hatred would have brought me nowhere. Staying alive was hard enough, anything else would have been too much. But I was getting desperate, that is true,” Nyneve conceded. “Eventually, what really saved me was meeting Merlin.”

Morgana gawked, awestruck.

“You knew Merlin?”

Nyneve hummed, smiling.

“We met after I was captured by a bounty hunter. He rescued me. We were going to leave Camelot together. He said we would live by a lake, like when I was a child,” she remembered fondly. “But I got wounded soon after. He couldn’t save me, so he did the only thing he could: he took me to a lake. It made me happy, even if I was dying.”

“You loved him,” Morgana gathered in shock.

“Yes, and I still do. It’s nothing epic or consuming, but we had fallen a bit for each other, and he allowed me to die feeling loved. And then, consciously or not, offering my body to the lake, Merlin gave me a new life. Thanks to him, I learned that there is always hope, even in death. Take my brother: he thinks he is lost, that he is forever damaged, but I know better. I see the strength within him, I see his good heart. I know he can overcome his ghosts. So I’ll keep believing in him until he believes too.”

“You are very fond of him.”

Nyneve beamed, tender emotions lighting up her whole face.

“He is a good man. He has grown bitter and angry after his death, but I know he’ll find his way out. He’s a survivor.”

“Like you,” Morgana pointed out.

“Like me.”

“Do you think I could meet him?”

Nyneve smiled again with a strange and knowing expression.

“Yes, I think you should when the right time comes. At the moment, you would likely tear each other’s head off, tough.”

Morgana chuckled. In her head, she pictured a lanky, male version of her friend, with wavy hair like Nyneve but devoid of her softness. She imagined someone more coltish while also sad-eyed and with an angry smile.

Completely unrequested, Morgana’s mind also conjured up the memory of another man, jaded and disillusioned, yet still furious and spirited.

Morgana remembered him shouting.

She paled so quickly that Nyneve sat up to touch her shoulder.

“Morgana, are you all right?”

Morgana gasped mutedly and she grabbed forcefully Nyneve’s arm, reaching for her. She couldn’t calm down, but Nyneve didn’t seem to mind, as if that desperate grasp was fine for her, normal.

When Morgana found the strength to raise her glance, her eyes were dim with tears, but she gulped down her agitation and forced the tremor to stop.

“I need to see Arthur,” she said.

Nyneve hugged her so tight it almost choke Morgana. She relished in that closeness.

“Good,” the girl agreed proudly. “He’s been asking about you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trivia: in several versions of the legends, Morgana and Arthur reconciled some time before Arthur’s fall, and she’s one of the three women who brought Arthur’s body to Avalon. So if I can have a redemption arc about one of my favourite characters ever, well fuck, I’ll have it.  
> That said, I hate Vivienne with a passion and I wish I could off her, but she fits the role.


	4. Courage

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Early update because tomorrow I'm leaving for Ireland, so I probably won't have time for/remember to post the new chapter.
> 
> This is where the fun (?) begins. The previous chapters were just a very long introduction. This chapter too is still fairly introductory but something is finally boiling up in this pot of mine, you’ll see. We start discovering things. And when I say “we” I mean myself included because I managed to write a couple of things in this chapter that I absolutely didn't expect.

There was a hazy confusion in his head.

Arthur thought he remembered pieces and bits, but they were all jumbled so he couldn’t tell what happened first rather than later. He had a sense of a boat knocking on some shore and of his body growing slacker and weaker. He remembered Merlin’s face, he saw the campfires at Camlann. He thought he heard Morgana weeping and a young female voice telling him not to worry. The murmured words ‘Avalon’ and ‘mother’ still rang in his ears along with ‘ _home_ ’.

He remembered dark brown eyes and a sweet smile. He saw Mordred sagging like an empty cloth against the ground.

He was home.

He recalled dying in Merlin’s arms. But he was sure they had been in the open, while now he was in a bedroom much similar to the one he had in Camelot. What could have happened between death and whatever might be after it?

Arthur sat up and grimaced, aggravated by the light. When his eyes could focus enough on his surroundings, he saw a tall woman with auburn hair. Her sleeveless dress was dark purple and it reached the floor, while her white arms were covered in heavy jewellery.

“Welcome to Avalon, Arthur,” she greeted him with a sardonic lilt.

He blinked, confused.

“I know you. You’re that sorceress who nearly killed me in that cave.”

“My, my, you remember. I’m almost honoured.”

“What are you doing here?”

“Not killing you,” she bantered. “I actually didn’t really try to kill you that time either, else you would have arrived here way earlier.”

“And ‘here’ would be?”

The sorceress huffed.

“Are you dense? I told you: you’re in Avalon.”

“Where’s Merlin?”

“Not here. He is still alive, and this is a place only the dead can reach. And the Sidhe, but I don’t like them much so they know it is better they keep their distance.”

Arthur didn’t listen to her divagations, caring only about what she had said first: Merlin was alive.

Good. That was good. Arthur felt already more serene knowing that the fool was out there, somewhere, and that he was still breathing.

“Are you dead too?”

She arched her eyebrows and made a contemptuous grimace.

“Apparently. I should thank that servant of yours for this.”

“What, Merlin? He’s not a killer.”

“He is not only that. He is the most powerful sorcerer who ever lived and who ever will,” the woman corrected him. She cocked her nose disapprovingly, “Of course he didn’t need to go to such lengths with me, but I guess I had angered him a little too much for his liking.”

“What did you even do?” Arthur asked, incredulous.

It had been difficult to reconcile with the idea of Merlin being a warlock, even after seeing him using magic, but the thought of him killing someone was simply ludicrous.

The sorceress shrugged.

“It’s not important. I’m sure your friend will be all too happy to tell you one day.”

Arthur’s blood chilled.

“When he dies?”

“No, when you’ll meet again. Which won’t happen before many years have passed, so until then bite back the curiosity because I’m not your storyteller.”

“Right. So who are you exactly?”

The lady chortled softly, supercilious.

“I am the Hemlock Queen of Avalon, patron of dark magic. I imagine you have heard of me as Nimueh.”

Arthur rose up with a jump.

“You’re the sorceress who killed my mother!”

He looked for his sword, but he found out he was disarmed. He wasn’t even wearing his armour anymore.

Nimueh shushed him brusquely, “Hush, boy. It’s more complicated than that. Your mother can explain it to you herself.”

“She’s in Avalon?”

The first trace of a sincere smile flickered on the Queen’s face.

“Of course. She is the worthiest inhabitant of Avalon. I daresay she’s even worthier than Lancelot.”

Arthur inhaled stiffly.

“He too, then.”

While he and Gwen had solved their doubts about that particular past, he had never got to talk with Lancelot. He didn’t know where his heart stood regarding his former knight.

Nimueh snickered impishly, “Recently Avalon has become abnormally crowded. Call it the upside of war.”

“What about Morgana? She was dying, I saw her.”

The woman clicked her tongue.

“Yes, she is here,” she informed him, flat-toned and impersonal.

“I want to see her.”

Nimueh scoffed, “Such impatience. You’re going to have to wait, she is not ready to meet you yet.”

Arthur frowned and just huffed impatiently, “I don’t care, take me to her.”

“I don’t care about what you care,” Nimueh trilled melodiously, mocking him. “I say she is not ready, so you will wait. We don’t want you to hinder the progress she is making.”

That alarmed Arthur: Morgana had already progressed, spiralled down into an abyss of dark magic. The mere mention of her progressing into anything floored him.

“What progress? What are you doing with her?” he roared.

Nimueh crossed her arms and looked at him as though he were a very annoying type of insect.

“Helping her heal. I suppose you can imagine how damaged she was the day she arrived. She is weaker than a child.”

“Morgana was never weak,” he bit back.

“Her heart was. Too battered and bruised. It will be a small miracle if she takes less than a century to recover,” Nimueh gravely stated.

Arthur wanted to be mad with Morgana, to condemn her. His better judgment told him he should be wishing for her blood or worse but he couldn’t forget how crushed she had looked the day she had died. She had been ashen and delirious with anger and grief, just a blurred shadow of the girl he had grown up with. To Arthur, it had been painfully clear that Morgana was not herself. He couldn’t be angry with someone who didn’t exist anymore.

“If you don’t take me to her, I’ll find her on my own. She needs me.”

“Surely not now. She will, eventually, but not yet. Learn to wait, young king,” Nimueh cut him off imperiously.

He didn’t mistake her words for something different from an order. Arthur knew a command when he heard one, and it stung. He had grown accustomed to being the one in charge, so the role reversal was hard to swallow.

Nimueh approached him, her steps slow and sinuous. She reminded Arthur of snakes and salamanders, of fangs and poisonous bites.

He thought of Nathairs, and his skin crawled.

She tittered carelessly, “You know, I’m impressed. I expected you to be raving mad. For someone who shares Uther’s blood you are showing a great deal of compassion towards your sister.”

She touched his cheek and Arthur moved back immediately.

Nimueh looked at him with ill-concealed interest.

“Maybe you are your mother’s son more than you are Uther’s.”

“Don’t speak of my mother.”

She sniggered, “Oh, you ignorant child.”

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

Arthur expected his first meeting with his mother to be lethally emotional, or at least shocking.

Instead, it was heartening. It was happy. He saw her one day when she knocked cautiously at his door, and she looked so wonderful and good and benevolent that Arthur wondered how in the world he could have fallen for Morgause’s deception years before. That spirit had been nothing like his mother.

Ygraine hugged him and kissed his cheeks, teary-eyed with joy, and from that moment Arthur was simply her son and she was his mother. They talked and they touched, and she told him stories and kept brushing Arthur’s hair away from his forehead while smiling luminously. His mother was a gentle star shining lovingly in the sky of his eyes, and Arthur felt secure with her. At home.

Seeing Morgana, though, was completely different. It didn’t take as long as Nimueh had predicted, but for Arthur it had still been long enough.

In the months he had been living – existing? Whatever, who cares – in Avalon, he had met some of the inhabitants of the island, Sidhe included, and damn him if he didn’t understand why Nimueh disliked the creatures so much: they were sly on the good days and bloody unnerving on the others.

He had begun to feel at ease in Avalon, but he would have been ragingly restless without Nyneve and her periodical updating on the living world, on the present future of Camelot. The Queens wouldn’t let Arthur anywhere near their silver well, each of them fairly convinced he would spend whole days staring into the waters and checking on his loved ones.

As much as it cost him to admit it, it didn’t sound too farfetched. So Nyneve it was.

It soon turned out she was the owner of the dark eyes and sweet smile which Arthur foggily remembered pulling him out of death. She had a patient way of putting up with his worries, and Arthur enjoyed her company. He liked her peaceful youthfulness, the gleam in her smirk when she joked. She felt familiar.

When he saw her coming to him while he was talking to the lady Vivienne, he guessed she was going to bring him news about Gwen and Merlin, but her words shocked him.

“Morgana wants to see you.”

Vivienne gasped, but Arthur didn’t pay her any heed.

“Where is she?”

“She is waiting at the doors of the tower.”

And with that, he was already running.

He didn’t see the trees, the bushes and roots. He just felt the shadow of the tower growing larger, and the presence of his sister getting nearer.

Morgana was standing in front of the tall elder doors, pale like the ghost she was, pacing back and forth as she tormented her hands. She rose her head when she heard the noise, and she grew even more bloodless at the sight of Arthur. Her smile was tentative and fearful, and Arthur nearly assaulted her, holding her in a tight embrace before any flicker of thought could enter their brains.

Morgana chuckled weakly.

“You’re choking me, Arthur.”

He didn’t care.

“Deal with it.”

“Arthur!”

She pinched him on his side and he let go with a pained groan.

“That was uncalled for.”

“I couldn’t breathe, you lout!”

Her smile was slightly brighter now, and she wasn’t as wan as before. It hurt him, because that livelier face still couldn’t classify as even a shadow of the astounding girl he remembered. That Morgana was forever gone, and he had to discover all over again who the lady standing in front of him was. Because she wasn’t even a girl anymore: at some point during their fights and battles, Morgana had become a woman and Arthur hadn’t even noticed until that moment. She had thinned, and there were angles in her face and hollows between her bones. She fit in his arms in a much different, stranger way. He would need to learn how to fix it.

For the first time after his death, Arthur realised things had truly, indelibly changed. He could only go along with it and promise himself to learn from his mistakes.

“Don’t you ever leave my side like that again. Ever,” he hoarsely whispered, grabbing her shoulders with strong fingers and fear.

He needed to touch her, to feel she was concrete and that she wasn’t going to disappear in a gust of the wind.

He wouldn’t let it happen again.

“I thought Morgause loved me,” Morgana apologised, heart-break painted all over her face.

Arthur’s rage boiled up under his skin. That cursed woman had spent an entire year with Morgana while Camelot whole had been combing the world for the king’s ward – for Arthur’s _sister_ – and in that time Morgause had harvested all Morgana’s trust, all her blind love.

“Fucking not,” he snarled, perhaps a bit too viciously, but Morgana didn’t back away. She sobbed against his chest and tried to find her place in Arthur’s arms.

“I know now,” she murmured.

Arthur deemed himself a merciful man, but he was never going to forgive the witch who had caused Morgana to question her life so much that she had actually turned against her own friends. And he hadn’t seen it coming until. He had neglected her so terribly.

“I’m sorry I wasn’t there for you.”

“I made it so. We both did wrong.”

Arthur scoffed, thinking back to all the bad decisions he had taken in his life. Both his and Morgana’s common sense had proved to be tragically lacking. It was darkly amusing, under a few perspectives.

“It’s a family trait.”

Morgana snorted. Her shoulders quivered and she quickly put her hands in front of her mouth, laughing softly behind her thin fingers. He felt proud of her laughter and joined her with a wide smile.

“Stupid to the core,” she grinned conspiratorially.

It was like being children again. Reborn.

He was going to make things good.

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

Arthur wondered if it should have been harder being with Morgana. They had spent the last six years of their lives fighting each other, no quarters, and their last battle had led to both their deaths, leaving a hole behind them which would take years to mend.

But Arthur was a different person now. Because of Merlin, he had spent the last excruciating days of his life reconsidering… well, reconsidering everything.

His friend had magic. The lousiest servant he had ever had the misfortune to meet was the greatest warlock of all times, and he had spent the years washing Arthur’s clothes and bringing him food because he had believed in him, in the future he had expected Arthur to build.

Merlin could have turned against them at any given moment. Living in Camelot, he had seen his kind being ferociously persecuted, but he hadn’t faltered because he had _believed_.

Purpose could surely take a person to epic lengths.

Morgana had never had that. Arthur was always supposed to be king, he was born for that, educated since his childhood on how to lead, fight and command. Merlin had entire books of prophecies telling him he was destined to follow Arthur in his journeys. Leon had discovered when he was just a child that the clanging of swords and the red capes of the army were all he needed to feel at home. But Morgana’s mother had been nothing more than a name, she had lost her father too soon and all she had known since childhood were Camelot, which wasn’t her home, and Uther, who cherished her but who was also so cold that even Arthur doubted his love. And then she had known Arthur, self-assured even as a child, so certain about his future, while Morgana had never known what was going to happen to her, if she was going to marry or rather be compelled to marry like many noblewomen before her, if she was supposed to go back to Tintagel, to stay in Camelot, to leave for a faraway kingdom.

Morgana had been forced to build herself from scratch, but then the person she had created had crumbled down under the weight of too many expectations and not enough encouragement.

Maybe Arthur was foolishly refusing to see the true extent of her darkness, but sometimes she looked a little bit like the girl from his memories, even though her smiles were achingly frail and cautious now.

When they sat at the feet of the trees and he watched her doing silly tricks with her magic, growing slowly more accustomed with the whole sorcery thing, Arthur could only remember the small child who used to hide stray cats under her bed.

Morgana blew some sparkly dust on his face and Arthur sneezed.

“Oh, come on!” he grumbled, and she laughed, hand covering her mouth.

He complained sullenly, “You’re only doing this because I don’t have my sword.”

“Then bring it next time. You could use some exercise.”

“I don’t need exercise.”

“You do. You’ll get fat,” Morgana teased, going hysteric when she was him blushing.

“I’m not fat, I can’t get fat. The dead don’t get fat,” he bristled.

“You can’t use death as an excuse” she argued matter-of-factly.

“Why not?”

“Because it’s morbid!”

Arthur scowled.

“I _am_ training, you know. It’s not like I spend my time picking daisies.”

“Oh? With whom?”

“Gwaine. He’s been here for a while.”

Morgana’s cheeks blanched and he could see her jaw clench. She looked away rigidly, and he caught the slightest tremor in her fingers.

“What is it?”

Morgana shook her head.

“Nothing. I thought you would rather train with Lancelot.”

“Lancelot’s good, but Gwaine is the better swordsman.”

Something in his face gave him away, though, because Morgana frowned.

“No, this isn’t about his skills. It’s about Gwen, isn’t it? Have you ever talked to him, Arthur?”

“There’s nothing to talk about,” he awkwardly spluttered.

Morgana clicked her tongue and hid her face behind her hands, tormented by her own sighs.

“Stop that, Morgana.”

He took her by the wrist, pulling her hand away from her face, and Morgana looked him in the eye, her lips a thin line of worry.

“Arthur, I must tell you something. When Lancelot came back, and you found him with Gwen–”

“I don't want to hear this.”

His gruff mumbling sounded puerile even to his own ears, but he couldn’t care less.

Morgana leaned towards him and held his hand back.

“It was my doing, Arthur. I did it. I brought Lancelot’s shadow back so he would be under my control, and I forged a bracelet that would get Gwen to feel for him again. None of that was their fault. None of that was their decision. I did it.”

Arthur stopped himself short of elbowing her away, registering her words only a moment later.

He looked at Morgana completely at loss, disbelievingly. His shock was so huge it almost washed away the disappointment he also felt. Almost.

“Why?” he simply asked, begging to understand.

He must have reminded Morgana of a child who couldn’t comprehend why people were mean to him. He certainly felt like one. But he could also gather from her morose sigh that Morgana herself couldn’t fathom how she had managed to turn so rancorous and vile.

“Because I wanted to hurt you and most of all I wanted to hurt Gwen. She used to be my friend way before she became your anything. She was supposed to be mine, I couldn’t stand her wanting you instead of me, and I couldn’t stand her taking my place. So I did the only thing in the world that could ever divide you.”

“As king I was supposed to have her killed for treason. Morgana, she could have died!”

“I didn’t see it as a downturn back then.”

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

Arthur needed some time for himself after his last confrontation with Morgana. He wanted a couple of days to think about what she had said, to sort out his feelings about it. It was unlike him to spend so much time musing, but there wasn’t much else to do in Avalon and Nyneve told him thinking would do him good.

After all, the isle was supposed to be a place crafted exactly for that: meditation. And redemption.

Gods above, Arthur missed the action. He longed for the simple facts of living, like waking up in the morning to the buzzing noise of the servants already at work, and the new and strange faces at the market.

The dead quiet of Avalon didn’t befit him.

Sparring wasn’t enough to quell him when he was that restless, so Arthur went to see his mother. Ygraine’s serenity was softly contagious and her presence soothed him even more than what Nyneve or hours of fencing could do.

He entered her rooms with embarrassed shyness, shifting his weight from one foot to the other before calling her. He never knew if it was arrogant of him to ask for the company of the Rosemary Queen of Avalon. Nimueh had surely hinted as much, but Ygraine had never refused him her time, so Arthur was still mildly uncertain.

Anyway, when she heard him knock, his mother offered him the brightest and sweetest of her smiles, as she always did when she saw him. Ygraine put away the crystals she had been perusing and kissed his cheeks.

They went outside for a walk in the forest. Even if they had an almost eternity of sunny days ahead of them, Ygraine had a way of making him cherish the good weather and the blossoming flowers as if they were some unexpected treasure.

Arthur was as close to cheerfulness as he had ever been since Camlann when he spotted two figures at the edge of the woods.

He recognised the slim silhouette of Nyneve and the cloudy tint of her dress. She was talking with a tall man, dark-haired and broad-shouldered. Arthur had never seen her in male company, except for when he had caught her once or twice with Gwaine. But, apparently, his former knight was Nyneve’s long-lost brother, and Gwaine called her Freya instead of Nyneve, so they were something very strange and completely apart.

When the man turned and Arthur saw his face, he startled.

 _Lancelot_.

“Mother, can I…”

Ygraine hugged him encouragingly and she moved the hair away from his forehead.

“Go, love. I can find you later.”

Arthur reached the man as if walking on a cloud. He didn’t perceive the grass under his boots, not really. His legs moved on their own volition.

Nyneve caught sight of Arthur approaching and she bit her lips to hide her smug smile. She tilted her head and gestured Lancelot to look behind his shoulders.

There was a knot in Arthur’s throat, and he struggled to gulp it down.

Lancelot’s eyes went wide and he fell immediately to his knees, bowing his head in respect.

“Arthur.”

 “I’m not your king here, Lancelot. Rise.”

His old friend did as told, but he looked Arthur in the eye as he said, “You’ll always be my king, Arthur.”

And Arthur wasn’t a sentimental man, he was tough and well-used to sucking up his emotions and simply going on as if it were nothing, but the unwavering loyalty in Lancelot’s glance hit him like a punch in the stomach and Arthur was remembered once again why the man in front of him had been named the noblest knight of the Round Table.

“Just friend is fine, Lance.”

It had surely needed guts from Morgana to confess what she had done, but Arthur wasn’t going to think about it or her now.

Just one step at a time. One step at a time.

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

Arthur laughed at Lancelot’s joke. He had missed Lancelot’s quiet company, the keenness of his instincts. Lance spoke and walked with a polite honesty that not even Nimueh would mock.

He was a refreshing company among Avalon’s unearthly lot. He felt more genuine, flesh and blood while the rest of them were air and light.

The three Crowns were always poised, self-composed. Sure, Nimueh was elfish and Vivienne disturbingly erratic, but like Arthur’s mother, they had that stately demeanour about them, they practically oozed grandeur. Nyneve was way more modest than them, but the dreamy quality of her eyes rendered her just as distant. Even as she laughed and playfully teased, there was no way Arthur could mistake her for someone human: her steps were too elegant, her voice too wise. She was a nymph, a water sprite with ancient waves flooding her veins.

It had been unsettling for him, being the only mortal man in Avalon. Arthur often missed the company of his comrades, and Gwaine had proved useless on that front: he was a completely different person from the one Arthur had known, diffident and withdrawn.

Already in Camelot, Gwaine had been rowdy and humorous and yet extremely reserved, always hiding his thoughts behind lousy jokes. Arthur would have bet even Merlin knew next to nothing about him. Yet, the Gwaine of Avalon was something else entirely: he was a bitter and tired man, and while he grinned wildly in the company of Arthur and Lancelot, there was always a deep trace of wretchedness looming around him.

Much like Morgana, Gwaine was just crumbs and dust of his old self. But while Morgana had suffered from distrust and magic and loneliness, she was now slowly coming back to the person she was born to be.

Arthur still hadn’t discovered what exactly had transformed Gwaine into that frustrating mess, and his friend liked to keep the secret annoyingly well-guarded. As things stood between them, Arthur could only wait for Gwaine to start talking.

It wasn’t an easy task.

Lancelot roused Arthur from his musings and he pointed to a spot between the trees ahead of them.

“There’s someone there.”

It took Arthur a few moments to see what Lancelot had already noticed. The tricks of the light between the tree branches made it hard to discern clearly the shapes and colours, and he was soundly sure it was just as difficult for anyone to locate him and Lancelot among the thick bushes.

He blinked incredulously and moved closer as quiet as possible. He heard voices, angry sputters that distantly resembled words.

Lancelot followed suit just as cautiously and he grabbed Arthur’s shoulder when they both recognised the two people before them.

“ _I felt your fingers in my brain. Burning it_ ,” they heard Gwaine hiss, and Lancelot blanched next to Arthur, cold and stiff.

Gwaine was clasping Morgana’s wrists in front of her chest, so forceful it had to be painful, but her face was plain and impassive as if it didn’t bother her in the least. From Gwaine’s bearing it was evident that he was restraining himself, but just barely. Morgana was shaking, yet the venom in her voice didn’t belong to a frightened woman.

Arthur and Lancelot were suddenly too wary to move, to speak. It was clear they had stumbled upon something very private, not meant to be seen. The men exchanged quick glances, trying to decide whether it was better to leave or to stay and get ready to separate Arthur’s sister from their friend before one of the two did something regrettable.

Morgana grimaced.

“And I felt it twice more. What do you think, that becoming the High Priestess was fun? I had to endure such pain to master the dark aspects of magic, you would pale to only hear about it.”

“It could never be worse than what you did to me.”

Arthur pricked up his ears almost against his will.

That wasn’t Gwaine. That visceral contempt could never be him. It was too deep, too destructive.

Morgana stilled, her face a waxen mask.

“No. It couldn’t. But it’s still better than what they did to me.”

She wrestled out of his grasp and Arthur could see how Gwaine was struggling with the instinct to catch her again. To hurt her.

It sparked a flash of protectiveness in him.

Morgana was about to say more and Arthur just knew it was something he should never, ever hear. So he took a deep breath and walked towards them as noisily as possible, calling his sister.

“Morgana?”

She blanched and looked at him wide-eyed.

He pretended to be clueless about what had just transpired between his sister and his friend, mostly for Gwaine’s benefit, who was staring at Arthur as if he were paralysed. A single glance was sufficient to tell Morgana that he had, in fact, heard and that he didn’t want to intrude any further.

“Arthur!”

“I thought you were with Nyneve.”

Morgana reciprocated him with an equivalent look of gratefulness. She readjusted the already perfect sleeves of her dress, hiding with feigned nonchalance the red marks on her wrists. The detail didn’t escape Arthur and a flicker of anger towards his knight flared in his stomach.

“Indeed. I had gone looking for her, but she is with your mother.”

Arthur didn’t turn when he heard Gwaine’s hostile snort, neither did he pay him any attention when the man left without a word.

Lancelot looked between Arthur and the direction Gwaine had taken. He met Arthur’s eyes and he nodded concordantly.

“I’ll go,” he complied and bowed his head quickly towards Morgana before leaving. “Lady Morgana.”

“Sir Lancelot,” she regarded him stiffly.

Once they were alone, Morgana let out a shaky sigh and she lowered her eyes, hiding her face behind her long locks. Her shoulders were quivering, shaking as though she were suddenly cold. She hugged herself, radiating uneasiness.

Arthur wasn’t going to let her retreat into her shell.

“What happened between you and Gwaine?” he asked, hoping to sound concerned rather than harsh.

Morgana raised her chin, faking a haughty confidence she didn’t own in the least.

She swallowed and inhaled deeply, tilting her head just slightly to the right.

Arthur couldn’t understand how such cruel words could be uttered with that type of wistfulness.

“I killed him.”

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

It was easy to find Gwaine. The bloody idiot spent most of his time dawdling around the shores, where Nyneve could find him effortlessly.

Arthur and Lancelot cornered him in a matter of seconds.

“So, from where I’m standing things look like this: either you talk, or I’ll beat you until you’re a sorry mess. And then you talk.”

The raw defiance in Gwaine’s eyes was the same mad light which had burned in him years before, when they had first met during that tavern brawl and then again when he had launched himself against those dreadful wyverns in the Isle of the Blessed as if he didn’t care about dying.

It nauseated Arthur. Gwaine should have been way past that.

“I’d like to see you try, princess.”

Arthur clenched his fist and Gwaine was already raising his arm, taking stance.

“Good, ‘cos I think Lancelot and I can butcher you.”

Gwaine grinned.

“Two against one, Arthur? That’s hardly fair.”

“Then talk,” he spelled imperiously.

The knight chuckled mirthlessly, “Fuck off, Your Highness.”

Highness, really?

Lancelot stiffened at Arthur’s side. He looked at Gwaine with a mixture of pity and disappointment which seemed to make Gwaine sickeningly proud.

Arthur knew he was going to get nothing out of Gwaine until he was so shielded. If he needed to give him or receive a black eye to make him spill, then so be it.

“Leave us, Lance,” he said.

Lancelot hesitated.

“Can you handle it?”

“I’ve dealt with worse than this idiot.”

His friend hummed, discontent, but he eventually obeyed. He spared a concerned glance for the third man, mouthing an exasperated curse while he disappeared behind the thick wall of trees.

Gwaine sucked his lips.

“You don’t want Lance to see his king making a fool of himself?”

“I don’t want him to see you making a fool of yourself.”

The man guffawed. His laughter sounded empty and jarring, it made Arthur’s ears hurt.

“Too late for that.”

“Good to know you’re aware of it.”

“I’m aware of many things, Your Majesty.”

“Cut it, Gwaine.”

Gwaine seemed to sober up, if only slightly. He gave Arthur a pointed glare.

“There’s no sense in this, Arthur. Drop it.”

“Wrong. There’s no sense in you and I want to know why.”

Gwaine shrugged unapologetically and Arthur swore, he _swore_ his hands were itching with the urge to break his friend’s nose.

“I don’t know. Childhood trauma?”

“I’m serious here.”

“So am I. Father died when I was ten, ran away from home, been scrambling ever since,” he enumerated offhandedly. “Is that enough?”

“No.”

Gwaine cackled cheerlessly, “Figures. You know, I never really liked you. You’re my king and I would follow you to the edge of the world and beyond, but you’re an arse.”

Arthur quirked his eyebrows, unimpressed.

“Look who’s talking.”

“You know what they say: takes one to know another.”

Arthur sighed. It was like trying to talk to a drunkard who had lost an entire night in his pints. Except that Gwaine wasn’t drunk on alcohol but on whatever poisonous thoughts that had been scourging his spirit.

Not for the first time, Arthur cursed Merlin for not being there.

Merlin was the one who got people to open up, not him. Arthur was the person who took care of them after it and made sure everyone was safe. His idea of talking was the encouragement speech before a hopeless fight or the petty banter he shared with his closest friends. He wasn’t one to use words to… heal.

Blow Merlin and blow healing too. Arthur needed Nyneve’s help there.

“How did you survive on your own?”

Gwaine chuckled mirthlessly, “I picked up a few tricks along the years. And then I learned how to drink, fuck and fight, and care for nothing else. When I met Merlin and I helped you, it was the first time after my father died that I did something for a purpose.”

He sighed as if after years he still couldn’t believe what he had done. “You have this thing… you were an arrogant bastard, Arthur, and yet there was this light about you, there _is_ this light, and it made me believe I could do something better with my life.”

“And did you do it?”

Gwaine snorted and ignored his question.

“You know, I travelled to Mercia after I met you. Last I had heard, my aunt was there, and I needed answers, to know why someone like Merlin was in Camelot, at your side.”

“What do you mean with ‘someone like Merlin’?”

“A bloody sorcerer, Arthur.”

“You knew?”

Gwaine scoffed, eyeing him with condescension, “’Course I did. My mother was a Druid, her whole family had magic. I knew right away.”

Arthur stilled.

“You never told me.”

Gwaine grimaced and sighed, “Merlin never knew I had guessed it. It wasn’t my place to tell you.”

Arthur was almost angry that Gwaine’s reason made sense.

He could understand Merlin not trusting him with the secret, because Arthur tended to be mulish when talking about sorcery, and he would have respected Gwaine a lot less had he betrayed Merlin’s identity.

It still rankled. It wasn’t just Merlin’s story that Gwaine hadn’t shared. He had kept everything from them, even as he called them friends.

“Did you find your aunt then?”

“Hard to do that. She was dead.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Trust me, you’re not. You don’t like her one bit.”

“I know her?”

“You do. It’s Nimueh.”

Arthur groaned, “Please, tell me this isn’t true.”

“I’ve told you my mother’s family had magic,” Gwaine smirked sarcastically.

“My servant is a sorcerer and one of my best knights is the nephew of a High Priestess. Great. Just great. How did Camelot not fall the first day I was king?”

“Pretty sure it was Merlin who prevented it.”

Arthur almost laughed. But it wasn’t the right moment, so he just scoffed.

Leave it to Gwaine to pretend everything was hilarious while things were actually starting to paint a very tragic picture.

“How could you stand to serve in Camelot while my father was alive? Your family must have suffered a lot because of him.”

Gwaine grimaced and clenched his teeth.

“I was your knight, not his.”

“Still, I don’t think it was easy.”

“It wasn’t. I never allowed myself to stop and think about what your father did, or I know I would have killed him.”

Arthur frowned and blurted out, “He was ill.”

“He was pretty healthy when he burned my uncle at the stake. And my grandparents, and all our friends. He even killed children I had grown up with, the same age of his dear son. I felt sorry for you when he died because you loved him, but don’t you think for a moment that I grieved the man,” he spat with such coldness it shook Arthur.

Up until that moment, he had thought he wanted to understand Gwaine. Now, he wasn’t so sure anymore.

There were too many things not clicking, and others that shouldn’t have matched but actually did.

“You think he deserved to die,” he inferred, monochord.

“I think that Purge of his has created too many ghosts. It had to bite him back sooner or later.”

Arthur paused. He caught something in-between his words that he had never considered before.

For the first time ever, he saw Gwaine under a new perspective.

“When Elyan was possessed,” he muttered, following a particular strand of memories. “You were the one who told him to use salt to fend off ghosts.”

Gwaine only shrugged, offering a strained smile.

Arthur gawked, flabbergasted.

“I don’t believe this. I see why you’re such a madman. It’s a bloody miracle it didn’t get you delusional!”

“I’ve met some people who’d like to argue on this point.”

Arthur’s shoulders sagged and he rubbed his hand on his face. Talking had been a bad idea. They should have really gone on pretending everything was fine and warding off their doubts by sparring until they were sore and drenched with sweat. Talking was overrated, definitely overrated.

“You had every reason to side with Morgana, with Mordred. With any of them. I’m glad that you didn’t, but why did you decide to fight with me and not with her?”

Gwaine opened and closed his mouth like a stupid fish, unable to utter a single word. He waved his hands in the air as if his reasons were insects he had to catch.

He looked lost.

“I grew up with outcasts and rogues like her. I know their world, it’s been mine for years too. But I was lucky enough to catch a glimpse of the one you wanted to build, and I thought it was worth it,” he feebly offered.

It sounded as if Gwaine didn’t realise there were tons of other ways he could have acted. He could have sided with Morgana, he could have sided with anyone, Lot or Cenred or the fighting brigades of the Druids. He could have kept himself from the fight and lived his life accordingly. His alliance with Arthur had never been the only alternative.

And then realisation dawned upon Arthur.

“Is this the reason why you’re doing it?”

“I’m not doing anything.”

“Yes, you are! You’re punishing yourself, and it’s not because you told Morgana that Merlin and I were heading to Avalon, but because you understand her. You think you’re like her and that without the Round Table, you would have ended up as dark as her.”

Gwaine brushed him off, a patronising scoff in his voice.

“I don’t have magic, princess. You can’t get that twisted without consorting with the demons.”

“Even if you had magic, you wouldn’t do it, Gwaine.”

“We will never know.”

“Sure we know, idiot. I know you.”

“I might be an idiot, but you’re blind.”

Arthur was getting tired of Gwaine’s self-deprecating taunts and his patience had always been a thin matter to begin with. The imbecile was begging to get kicked.

“Then tell me, what is that I’m not seeing?”

“Let’s call it the other half of the coin,” Gwaine jeered.

“And what is that?”

“It’s not important, princess. It’s just something, and I’d say I have to live with it, but…” he paused to snicker bitterly. “See, I’m dead. So please yourself into thinking we are alike, but in the end Morgana didn’t just kill me. She killed you too, and I would have never hurt my family, no matter what.”

That made Arthur still and his frustration at Gwaine steamed away. He was forced to remember one of the worst recollections he had of his life, almost as harrowing as his father’s passing.

“It wasn’t Morgana who killed me, Gwaine,” he said.

“What?”

“It wasn’t her. It was Mordred.”

Gwaine went slack-jawed, “Mordred? Our Mordred?”

Arthur closed his eyes and slowly nodded.

The man shook his head disbelievingly. “No. No, it can’t be. Not him!” he yelled.

Gwaine had a complex expression on his face, one contested between hurt, anger, astonishment and maybe even guilt. Why did the man feel guilty about things which didn’t involve him? Arthur was going to punch that shameful guilt out of his face if he didn’t stop. Patience thinning again.

“It was him. It was his sword. Mordred wounded me, and I wounded him back. He died on the spot, I followed him some days later.”

“But he was Mordred. I know he went back on us, but…”

Arthur would have liked to condemn Gwaine’s ravings as nonsensical, but he felt the same way about the boy. If there was one regret which overshadowed all the others, it bore the name Mordred. He was the wrong Arthur had no way to right, and he would need to learn to accept it.

“I brought him there. I made one mistake too many, and I caused my own fall. Not Morgana, not Mordred: it was I. I took wrong decisions over wrong decisions and with time they all brought me to Camlann. We’re the makers of our own destiny, Gwaine.”

“Says the son of the Seer.”

Arthur shrugged.

“It wasn’t a vision that made me decide what to do. I chose on my own, and I chose wrong.”

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

“Lady Morgana?”

“Yes?”

“I know I’m not Arthur, but if you need to talk, I’m here.”

“You are kind, sir Lancelot.”

A pause. The space of a breath.

“How… why don’t you hate me?”

“I’ve spent much time trapped beyond that veil. When you see so much suffering, it becomes easier to understand. And to forgive.”


	5. The Hemlock Crown

Morgana took a deep breath, ready to plunge underwater. She clawed with her fingers into the man’s soul, into his mind. She found a rope of memories and she pulled vigorously, unravelling an infinite cobweb of phantoms faces, all of them bellowing their fury at him, crying out and shrieking horrendously because he had been given the chance to avenge them, to set things right, and he had done nothing. He had a sword, he had the power, he had the occasions. He let them down, all those innocent people, and now they would burn inside him, and they will gash him, rip him with teeth and tear him apart piece by piece because that was all he deserved.

Gwaine screamed and Morgana screamed with him too, until her throat was sore.

No. That was wrong.

She hadn’t been screaming. She didn’t remember screaming, so why did it hurt?

It felt as if they were both going through torture, as if Gwaine’s pain were affecting her too, but it hadn’t been like that, not like that at all. She had been focused on rending his spirit, she had felt nothing apart from the fatigue her task required.

He was supposed to break. He should have collapsed under her hands. But now it was Morgana’s limbs going aflame, her flesh sizzling like burning coals. Magic was parching her skin, her throat, she couldn’t even cry out for help because her lungs were desert and sandstorms.

She fell to the ground on all fours, wheezing, gasping for air. Gwaine was still screaming, the sound of his howls clouding her mind, annihilating the rest of her senses.

She clung to the ground under her fingers, palms rubbing against dead leaves and dry twigs. She crawled before him, wrestling to simply get her back straight. She was able to rise to her knees only by using Gwaine’s body as a support. His spirit’s agony pierced through her.

“Stop it. Stop it!” she wept, holding onto his shoulders. “Make it stop, I don’t want this!”

But the knight couldn’t hear her and she had lost the reins of her powers. Magic was thrashing around them, whipping the air, breaking their skin with deep, bleeding cuts.

“Come back. Fight it! I didn’t know!” she sobbed. “How could I have known?”

She took Gwaine’s face in her hands, shielding him from the magical onslaught with her body. He was deaf and blind to the world, his cries smashing her at her core, making her ears bleed.

It wasn’t real. All of that wasn’t real. It was a twisted memory, a sick perversion of an even sicker event.

“Wake up, you have to wake us up!” Morgana begged, her body weakening under the vicious lashes of magic.

Gwaine screamed, and a name broke away from his chaffed lips, a desperate invocation for help.

He cried for Nimueh, and it didn’t matter to her how he knew of that name because Morgana finally woke up with a jolt.

She felt queasy, definitely on the wrong side of lightheaded. She was shuddering and her bedclothes were drenched in sweat. She didn’t understand what had just passed.

She lifted a shaky hand to move her hair from her face and she jumped down her bed, running to the window, breathing in the cool night air in a desperate attempt to remain conscious.

It had been ages since the last time she had experienced such kind of nightmares. Her dreams in Avalon were always sapid. Tame.

She inhaled slowly, breathing in the mild scent of pine and sage. She closed her eyelids but was immediately hit by the memory of Gwaine’s face distorted by agony and dread. She opened her eyes wide, fearing she would throw up or pass out.

She should have suspected that coming across the knight the previous day would cause her powerful reactions. Still, she hadn’t anticipated the violence of her dreams.

She pressed her forehead against the cold stone walls.

Gwaine was exactly how Morgana remembered him: hot-headed, passionate, with a visceral curve around his lips. She still guessed she was the only one able to perceive the secret darkness lurking behind his eyes, dimming the light of his strength just slightly. She had recognised that darkness. She had used it against him.

After all, it took a wretch to know one.

Yet, there was also something new about Gwaine, something she had never detected before. There was a halo preceding him, enveloping him like an airy husk. Apart from the trauma of meeting him in Avalon when she hadn’t expected it, Morgana had been affected by another undefined feeling. She had sensed a familiar crispness in the wind when he had appeared among the trees. She couldn’t grasp what it was, and it troubled her.

And then, all of a sudden, it clicked.

He had called for Nimueh.

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

“Nyneve?”

It was rare for Morgana to go looking for her. Nyneve usually had a way of showing up each time someone was in need but in this case, she was nowhere to be seen, and Morgana had to talk with her friend.

Oh. She wondered how long exactly she had been considering Nyneve a friend. Could it be months? Could it be years? But that didn’t matter now.

Nyneve appeared in the middle of the lake, water caressing her waist.

“Here,” she called. “I’m coming.”

Morgana saw her walking effortlessly through the current as if the water were nothing but air. The lake surface didn’t even ripple around her.

It was probably the first time Morgana witnessed a real proof of Nyneve’s nature. She couldn’t affect the water because she was part of the lake and the lake was her. Hers.

When Nyneve was in front of her, the veils of her grey dress dribbling down on the green grass, Morgana lost any control on her words.

“You should hate me,” she blurted out.

Nyneve smiled curiously, knitting her eyebrows.

“I don’t know why I should.”

“Because of what I did to Gwaine. It’s him, right? He is your brother.”

Nyneve stiffened and squared her shoulders.

“Yes, he is,” she admitted in a soft voice. “How did you figure it out?”

Morgana hesitated just a bit.

“He called for Nimueh. When I…” she paused and she saw a flicker of understanding behind Nyneve’s eyes. Morgana swallowed down her anxiety and tried to make sense of the tangled mess in her head. “You told me that Nimueh helped your mother make off from Camelot when the Purge began. We all only knew of her as an enemy, but Gwaine called for her because he needed help. And then there’s this thing, the air around him, just like around you… I felt that.”

Nyneve nodded thoughtfully. Morgana waited for her to say something, anything, but the girl kept quiet and the silence was maddening.

“Does he know you two are family?” she asked.

“Yes. I didn’t want to tell him at first, he just got on my nerves,” Nyneve chuckled shyly. “He’s very brother-like in that. Infuriating.”

“So why don’t you hate me? It’s my fault if he’s dead. It’s my fault he’s here.”

There. She had said it. She had caused Gwaine’s death, and she had done so much worse than that. The Nathair, the corrupting quality of its venom… Morgana had played with it, nibbling with sharp fangs at Gwaine’s soul until he was no more than a bloody carcass inside an intact body.

She _had_ broken him.

Nyneve sighed. She took her time before answering, sucking nervously her lower lip while she pondered.

“I think I may have hated you, had I met him when we were alive. But I did not. I had no idea who he was to me until I retrieved him from death. By that time, I had already seen too much of what you had gone through. You can’t blame a dog for biting if it has only known violence, can you?”

The comparison struck Morgana more harshly than a slap.

She had fancied herself many things from time to time: a princess, a warrior. A rejected queen, a sacrificial pariah. A leader. She had never seen herself as an animal.

It sounded sickly perfect in its accuracy.

“I guess I was no better than a rabid dog back then.”

Nyneve whispered her agreement, back to tactful instead of brutally honest, “I think so too. And then, I told you already I am very bad at hating.”

“Small mercies,” Morgana quipped mirthlessly.

“Not so small.”

“No, indeed not.”

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

Something was wrong with Arthur, and Lancelot was the first to take notice. His king was growing skittish, nervous, and he had taken to spending a lot of his time along the shores of the Isle.

He confronted him after a sparring session that had left Lancelot sore and conspicuously bruised.

“Would you care to tell me what’s on your mind?”

Arthur made a dazed face and he pouted.

“Nothing. I’ve just kicked you properly. Your footing was dreadful.”

Everyone had bad days and Lancelot’s footing _had_ been hideous, so he didn’t take offence, but he still prodded Arthur’s side with the hilt of his sword.

“Come on, Arthur. You’re tense as if you were expecting something.”

Arthur grimaced.

“I…” he sighed. “Am I the only one going restless here? I can’t stand this place anymore. Maybe I’m doing something wrong.”

“You should talk to the Queens,” Lancelot suggested him.

“Yeah, sure,” Arthur nodded sarcastically. “Because they’re so helpful. Nimueh and I are this close–”

Arthur made a gesture with his thumb and his index, and he squinted his eyes in annoyance, “This close to biting our heads off, I tell you. And I don’t like Vivienne. She’s… I just don’t like her.”

“What about your mother?”

Arthur hesitated, frowning.

“I don’t want to upset her. What if she thinks I’m not happy with her? I don’t want to make her sad.”

“She’s your mother and a powerful Seer. She’ll understand,” Lancelot reasoned sensibly.

“What if she doesn’t?”

Lancelot sighed.

“Then try Nyneve.”

Arthur scoffed, sceptical.

“All she talks about is healing. I’m well over that. I’m perfectly fine, it’s this damned place that is driving me insane. There’s no life, it’s always the same.”

Arthur frowned and looked Lancelot in the eye, “How do you bear with it?”

“I’m just enjoying my peace while I have it. I doubt this will last forever.”

“Yeah well, here’s to hoping.”

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

Day after day, Arthur felt the pull from the living world exhorting him to move forward. It resembled an urge, and it made his skin itch and his insides twist. He was growing more restless as the weeks progressed, the pettiest things vexed him.

So he finally went to Nyneve.

The Lady of the Lake smiled brightly at him, excited.

“It means you are ready, Arthur. You can sail from Avalon into the living world again.”

“Is it possible?”

“Oh, Arthur,” Nyneve laughed. “None of you is meant to be here forever. Avalon is just a harbour, a place of healing. It’s not home, and it still won’t be one for long.”

He frowned, not sure he understood well.

“So all of us will leave?”

“Eventually, yes. As you mend your ailments, you will all go back.”

“What will happen to you then?”

Nyneve knitted her eyebrows, confused.

“Me?”

“If we all leave, what will you do? You’re the keeper of souls, but what’s the point in that if there are no souls to keep?”

Nyneve chuckled amiably, “Don’t worry, Arthur. I know how to keep myself occupied.”

He settled down, but only for a short while.

He had outgrown his few regrets. After Mordred, the biggest remorse of all had been losing Morgana to magic but he had got her back in Avalon, and with her also Lancelot and the mother he had never known.

He had tried to do his best all his life. Sometimes it had been enough, sometimes it hadn’t, but he had gone down fighting, and he had never missed a chance.

He felt great for a few days, eager to leave Avalon and dive again into the whirlwind of smells, sounds, and savours of life. But then he realised he was going to embark alone on his journey.

It was painstakingly evident that Morgana was still far from his same condition, and Gwaine was in an even worse place.

Arthur told himself he wouldn’t panic because fear didn’t suit him. But he couldn’t even begin to consider a new life without his sister or one of his best mates. Lancelot was the single soul who could follow him without delay, but Arthur couldn’t, wouldn’t leave without Morgana and Gwaine. It would have been unfair. He wasn’t going to abandon them in that motionless island.

He told them exactly what he thought.

“I'm not leaving without you.”

Gwaine frowned. To Arthur’s knowledge, Morgana and Gwaine had been extra-careful so that their paths would never cross again, not even casually, but his friend knew Arthur wasn’t talking about him alone.

“We won’t be able to leave until we let go, and it will take no small miracle for that. You go, Arthur. It will be all right.”

“I can’t do that.”

“Sure you can. Merlin is out there, waiting for you.”

“The idiot can wait a little longer. She’s my sister and you are my friend. I’m not leaving you behind.”

“It’s better if you do. Your kingdom doesn’t need damaged goods. Take Lancelot with you and restore some order. I’ve heard things have gone pretty crazy in… how do they call it now?”

Arthur sighed. A lot had changed since they’d been alive. Outside Avalon, they had become stories, twisted legends, and most of the cities and shires they had visited had acquired new names. He disliked that with a passion.

“England.”

Arthur didn’t think his sister was damaged goods. Neither was Gwaine, even if the man definitely did his best to make it look like it. He had a point, though: both he and Morgana would need longer to come to terms with their past. Arthur wasn’t so sure he could pause for them without turning crazy.

There were people waiting for him on the opposite shore, they needed him.

“That one. Go and do your job, Your Highness.”

Arthur arched his eyebrow.

“Actually, it should be ‘Majesty’,” he corrected Gwaine with an edge of petulance.

“Ah, but you’ll always be a princess to me.”

Arthur elbowed Gwaine straight in his stomach, humming victoriously at his pained groan.

When even Morgana told him that it was senseless to remain in Avalon when his Albion was begging for him, Arthur was forced to comply.

There were no ceremonies that day. They would have been pointless.

Lancelot was already sitting in his boat, waiting patiently for Arthur to finish his goodbyes. Nyneve had been adamant about the need for a boat each, and who knew Gwaine’s little sister could arch her eyebrows like that.

Ygraine hugged him tenderly, she kissed his forehead and moved back a strand of hair from his face, a gesture that made Arthur feel like a little child. His heart did a strange flip in his chest, and Arthur wished he could prolong that moment forever or bring Ygraine with him.

He called his sister.

Morgana was standing among the Queens, two steps closer to Nimueh rather than to Vivienne, and no, he wasn’t going to comment on or think about that. Morgana was a grown woman and Arthur trusted her ability to see what was best for her. And in case her doubts surfaced again, he knew Nyneve would be there to quell them.

Arthur opened his arms and she covered the short distance between them, accepting his hug with a comforted sigh.

“Go, brother. I’ll be right behind you.”

“I count on that.”

He kissed her cheeks and she held him one more time, trembling a little.

Gwaine was nowhere to be seen.

Arthur got inside his boat still searching the coast with his eyes. Nyneve went into the water with him, and she brushed her fingers on the side of Arthur’s boat. She exchanged a quick glance with him, smiling sadly and shaking her head.

He caught her hint and nodded, a little bit glummer than before.

“It won’t be easy at first,” Nyneve warned him and Lancelot. “You may not be together for a while”

“Why?” Lancelot asked.

“Fate, destiny. Call it as you like. You will need to adjust and learn how to live again without Camelot.”

“How much has changed?”

Nyneve didn’t answer his question. She smiled and whispered, “Don’t worry about the fog, I won’t let you drown.”

She dived into the lake headfirst, the echo of her laughter rippling the water surface.

Their boats started to move, the shores of Avalon growing distant in the blink of an eye.

Arthur turned only once, but when he realised he couldn’t distinguish the profiles of the women on dryland, he looked back to the wall of mist in front of him. The head of his and Lancelot’s boats sank into the haze, disappearing through the grey cloud.

When Arthur got inside the fog, everything went blurry and heavy, the air in his lungs felt wet, viscous. He tried to make sense of his thoughts, but his mind was running in circles and he had a feeling he was stuttering because he felt his mouth moving but he wasn’t thinking words.

He closed his eyes, not knowing what he would see once he could open them again.

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

Morgana counted until she was somewhere between a lustre and five decades.

She smirked. Time was a slippery, silly thing. Ignoring how long had passed before she mustered enough of her courage could be a blessing, though.

The simple sight of Gwaine was almost enough to choke her.

They had unknowingly joined forces in trying with all their might to never meet again. At some point, Nyneve herself had discouraged any contact between them, and Morgana had been only too happy to oblige. But Arthur had been gone for too long now, and Morgana couldn’t allow things to fester within her. She had promised him she would follow.

She took a deep breath and stepped closer. Gwaine jumped as she stepped over a dry twig and he turned, giving his back to the lake. He glowered immediately at her, his lips twisted into a stern line.

She wasn’t going to let herself be discouraged by a dirty look, no matter how piercing.

“They never needed vengeance,” Morgana told him.

Gwaine raised a distrustful eyebrow, grinning derisorily.

In the few times they had met, Morgana had learned to hate ferociously his smirk. It was hardly honest, generally wry. Those who fell for it were utter fools.

“If you’re talking, lady Morgana, try at least to make some sense,” he mocked her.

“Those ghosts you saw. They’ve never needed any vengeance. They needed peace,” she clarified.

Morgana remembered the dead faces from Gwaine’s nightmares, the ones she had exploited and set against him with the venom of the Nathair. Some had been painfully familiar. Druids they had both met and people who Uther had sentenced to death when she was already living in Camelot. People Gwaine had seen only as opalescent spectres.

Gwaine snorted, sending her an arrogant glance.

“That’s what you came to say? I already knew it.”

“I didn’t,” she said, biting the insides of her cheeks. “It took me both my life and my death to see it.”

“And my death too, apparently. Glad I could help,” he added snidely.

“I won’t apologise for what I did to you. It’s useless and I don’t think it would mean anything to you.”

Gwaine offered an overly fake smile.

“You know me well, my lady,” he said, dripping sarcasm from every pore. And some things really never changed, because he even hinted at a bow, horsing around like he had done when he’d been a prisoner in her fortress.

Morgana would have pitied him, hadn’t she comprehended how deep his demons cut.

“I still want you to know that I do regret it. We were never simple enemies and I should have seen that earlier. But don’t fool yourself: it would have changed nothing. I was too far gone.”

Gwaine clenched his fist and he closed his eyes. She caught the twitch in his arms, as though he were restraining himself from sprinting forward. Against her.

He looked defeated, and Morgana wanted to hold him, to protect him from his memories like she had done in her nightmare so many years before, but that had been just a bad dream, and she didn’t have such strength in the waking world.

“I knew that too,” he uttered.

Morgana nodded and she turned her back, ready to leave, but she stopped after a few steps.

Everything out, once and for all, because there _were_ things she had seen even while she was still alive.

“I knew you were going to bed her,” she said.

She didn’t need to clarify whom she was talking about.

“Yeah, and why is that?”

“Because she looked nothing like me.”

A moment of silence, and then Gwaine’s voice resounded. There was no defeat left, only iron hatred.

“Leave, Morgana. This time your brother isn’t here to stop me.”

“I still have magic.”

“And I still don’t care.”

She whispered only in her head, “ _But you did._ ”

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

Vivienne had been reminding her for two centuries that she was the heir of the Thyme Crown. Nonetheless, Morgana had never realised she was effectively going to wear the Crown up until that moment.

She was with Nyneve in the small clearing at the centre of Avalon, where the silver well stood. They were both on their knees, supposedly praying the Triple Goddess to guide them and give them counsel on the night before their coronation as the new Queens of Avalon.

Morgana argued that probably the Goddess was otherwise occupied because she wasn’t getting any counsel from her.

“You were the last High Priestess and you are being blasphemous the night before your coronation as a holy Queen,” Nyneve commented.

“And our Goddess never spoke to me even when I worshipped Her. I’ll be the worst Crown Avalon has ever seen and probably cause another rift in magic. Then She will be forced to speak to me if only to tell me I’m Her biggest disappointment ever.”

“I think She was more disappointed in Tehi Tegi.”

Morgana snorted, and Nyneve laughed.

Silence and prayer were a stupid tradition, anyway. There was more sacredness in their shared laughter and soothing confessions. The small ritual of being friends and confiding in each other was all the meditation they needed.

After all, new times were ahead. With every transfer of the Crowns, something happened to magic and to the world whole. The first Queens appointed by the Goddess herself had been angry warriors and fiery leaders: Nemain, Macha, and Mebd had been sovereigns who had caused magic to be an overwhelming force which engulfed the entire world, unstoppable and unstopped. Their successors Nimueh, Ygraine, and Vivienne had shaped it into something more sophisticated, shifty and maybe darker. Magic had been a weapon and a shield that requested both your life and your death. Sometimes, even your soul. They had marked Hemlock’s strongest era.

But Morgana and Freya were going to remould it from the start. They were nurturers at heart and they had plans.

Even if, sometimes, they still had doubts.

Like Arthur before her, Morgana had been hearing the call of the living world, the peremptory request for a fulcrum of power amongst the currents of time, but she was still reluctant. If she had been Arthur’s unsolved question, someone else was going to be her unfinished business.

“What if I scarred him for good? What if he’ll never let go?”

Nyneve dropped any pretence of devoted meditation and sat down with her legs against her chest.

“He’s strong, Morgana, very strong,” she reassured her. “You broke him, but not in the way you think. Like everyone here, it is something he brought upon himself.”

“He hates me.”

“I think he only hates himself at this point. But he doesn’t trust you.”

“I can’t blame him. I don’t trust myself either.”

Nyneve shushed her, “You’ve gone a long way from the person you were, Morgana. I think you can allow yourself some credit.”

Morgana didn’t answer, so Nyneve took her hands and looked pointedly at her.

Since Arthur had left, it had become difficult to reason with Morgana. She had healed from her anger thanks to Nyneve, and from self-hatred because of Arthur’s forgiveness. Reincarnating was going to be essential for her to learn how to walk again without any crutches.

“Morgana, listen to me. Gwaine is my brother and I love him. You hurt him–”

“I did worse than that.”

“I know. You will have to live with it like I have to live with the fact that I’ve hurt people too.”

“It’s different. You had no choice.”

“I had one. I could have killed myself, and spare so many people. I know Lancelot or Arthur would have done that. I didn’t because I cared about my life more than anything else. We all have our blames. It’s the reason why Avalon chose us: we bear the potential for redemption, and for forgiveness.”

Morgana laid her head against the silver well and she sighed.

“I still don’t know how you can be so sure all the time. Is it Her voice you hear?”

Nyneve chuckled.

“That would be nice, but no, the Triple Goddess doesn’t speak to me. I’m just sure because I know what’s in my heart, and in yours. But I have doubts too, sometimes.”

“Do you?”

Nyneve nodded and hid her mouth behind her knees.

“The coronation. Becoming queen terrorises me.”

Morgana frowned, sceptical.

“Why would it ever scare you?”

“I’m just a Druid girl. I’m fine with being the Lady of the Lake, but the Rosemary is a completely different task. What if I’m not good enough?”

“Are you serious? You are the best thing that ever happened to me, and I am sure anyone would tell you the same. You will be a formidable queen.”

“I’m not Ygraine.”

“And I’m not Vivienne, but we’re together in this. We have plans, we can do it. Vivienne…” Morgana hesitated. She was still fearfully wary of acknowledging the Thyme Queen as family. “My mother and Ygraine were like sisters or so they say. I think… let’s prove them we can do better.”

Nyneve tilted her head, eyeing her with curiosity.

“What do you have in mind?”

Morgana sucked her lips, wavering just briefly.

“I want to be your sister. And I’m not my mother: I won’t betray you or fail you. I promise you, you’ll be proud of me.”

“You don’t have to promise. I’m already proud of you,” Nyneve said good-naturedly.

“But I want to.”

Nyneve hugged her legs, biting her lips thoughtfully.

“I’ve always wanted a sister,” she whispered.

Morgana beamed.

“Let’s do it, then.”

Nyneve tittered, nervous and excited.

“How?”

“Like this.”

Morgana’s eyes shone golden and she skimmed a nail along the palm of her hand, opening a thin, red cut. Small blood drops dribbled down her wrist.

“Here, give me your hand.”

Nyneve offered Morgana her palm trustingly. She winced when the future Thyme Queen cut her delicately.

“Sorry,” Morgana apologised, and Freya shook her head.

“It’s nothing.”

Morgana clasped her hand with Nyneve’s, holding tight, making their cuts coincide. The tiny blood drops meshed together, making it impossible to tell which belonged to whom. They both felt flickers of magic sizzling between their joined palms, blood recognising and welcoming other blood.

It gave Nyneve goosebumps and a shiver ran down her spine.

Morgana was barely choking her joy, biting hard her lips to stop herself from smiling too widely.

“That’s it. Sisters.”

Nyneve hummed, and she shook her shoulders.

“Sisters.”

They laughed softly, sharing a carefree look of complicity.

It had started like a childish game but it held a true value for both of them. It had ignited real magic.

“You should call me Freya,” Nyneve said.

Morgana blinked.

“Freya?” she repeated questioningly.

“It was my name when I was human. Nobody has been using it, only my brother. But we’re sisters now, so call me Freya.”

Morgana beamed, and there was only pure, utter happiness glowing on her face.

“Then Freya it is.”

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

Morgana peeped at Freya, who was kneeling like her in front of the three Crowns, soon to be only two.

She asked herself if she should be hurt by the thought that Morgause wasn’t there. It had surely pained her when she had first arrived at Avalon, and knowing her older sister was originally supposed to be Queen had troubled her.

At the moment, Morgana didn’t feel anything about Morgause, not even nostalgia. Maybe melancholy, because she was finally feeling good or something close to it, comfortable in her own skin, and it saddened her that her sister had never had that same chance.

“In the name of the Triple Goddess, I pass the Rosemary Crown onto thee. May your kingdom bring blessing and be blessed.”

Ygraine delicately put the Rosemary Crown on Freya’s head, and the gold bells tinkled softly.

The girl breathed out slowly, her naked shoulders quivering slightly.

“Rise, Nyneve of the Lake, and claim the throne of the Rosemary Queen.”

Freya stood up and walked up the dais to the three thrones, sitting on the gold seat on the right. Her steps were slow and perhaps a little uncertain, but once she had taken her place on her throne, something changed on her face. Freya smiled and looked down towards Morgana. They exchanged a brief glance and Morgana saw the determination in her sister’s eyes.

“In the name of the Triple Goddess, I pass the Thyme Crown onto thee. May your kingdom bring peace and be peaceful,” she heard Vivienne reciting.

The now ex-Queen laid the Thyme Crown on her head, and Morgana almost gasped. She felt a surge of power flooding her veins. Magic ran her over like an avalanche and she felt a million more sounds and scents and _lives_ flowing around her.

She raised her eyes to the former Queen and Vivienne smiled knowingly.

“Rise, Morgana of Camelot, and claim the throne of the Thyme Queen.”

Vivienne had called her Morgana of Camelot. Not of Tintagel: of Camelot.

It didn’t hurt. It made her feel stronger.

She was a child of the dragons.

She sat on the silver seat between Freya’s gold throne and the empty iron one.

Her blood-sister brushed her fingers on Morgana’s and she held her hand.

They gazed at their two predecessors, then Nimueh stepped forth, taking her crown off her head.

“In the name of the Triple Goddess, I relinquish the Hemlock Crown. No kingdom shall ever bring fear or be feared. The throne of the Hemlock Queen shall remain unclaimed, now and forever.”

She held the crown tightly in her hands, and blue and black flames enveloped the green leaves and white flowers. She grimaced and suppressed a frail yelp when the fire burned her fingertips, and the iron bells started tinkling furiously, the echo of distant screams spreading.

When she let go of the crown, nothing was left, not even a dust of metal.

Nimueh gasped, visibly weakened, but she looked at the new Queens, stating fiercely, “Morgause of Tintagel refused her place in Avalon. And now, the Hemlock Crown ceases to exist.”

Morgana nodded.

“So it is. The Hemlock has protected magic from its enemies, but now that the Crown has been burnt, it will need a new defender.”

Nimueh smiled, pale and trembling. Morgana noticed Ygraine eyeing her, ready to support her friend at any moment, should she falter.

“What will you do, my Queens?”

“I’m going back to serve as a new source,” Morgana said, leaving out the part where she was also going to follow Arthur, linking their lives back together as it should have been from the start.

Vivienne arched her eyebrows.

“Now?”

“The boat is already ashore. I must still atone for my sins, and that can’t be done from Avalon. There is much more I can mend from there.”

Freya continued, “Avalon and the Isle of the Blessed are joined together again thanks to Emrys. When the time comes, we will open the gates between us and Mag Mell. Magic wielders still live in secret, but they won’t be alone anymore. ”

It wasn’t going to be easy, uniting Avalon with Mag Mell and the Isle of the Blessed, but the fall of Hemlock could mean the start of something entirely new, and Freya was still the Lady of the Lake.

Ygraine brought her hands to her heart, teary-eyed. Morgana rose on her feet, abandoning her newly-claimed throne to hug her, because if there was something truly heart-shattering in the world, it was the sight of Ygraine’s tears, be they for sorrow or for joy.

The old Rosemary Queen hugged her back and she whispered her thanks.

“I’m very happy for you, Morgana.”

The lady held Morgana’s face in her cool hands, caressing her cheeks.

“I don’t know if you can already see it now, but you and my Arthur are two different coins, and yet you are on the same side. He will keep you true, as long as you do the same for him.”

“I know,” Morgana whispered. “I’m going back for him too.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tehi Tegi was a Manx enchantress who drowned most of the male population of the Isle of Man just because she could. I love her.  
> Nemain, Mebd and Macha are female warrior figures from the Irish mythology, all of them connected to the war goddess Morrigan. I find that Irish and Arthurian mythology have a way of going hand in hand.  
> I guess I ended up with nine queens of Avalon after all. Uh. Well, eight plus one since Morgause is out of the picture.  
> If you noticed the specularity between Morgana’s and Gwaine’s words, it’s not because of a lack of vocabulary, I just like my slow burns to be cheesy sometimes. I mean, I’ve been sprinkling hints since chapter 2. Now, if the characters themselves _got_ them, that would be nice.


	6. The Missing Side of the Coin

It should have probably worried Gwaine that after centuries he still refused to enter the tower. It was certainly worrying his sister, but he couldn’t bring himself to embark on that particular expedition. The lush wilderness of Avalon looked far more welcoming, far more endearing. He didn’t care for smothering high walls and heavy doors.

The former Crowns of Avalon had resigned themselves to his recalcitrant presence.  They had even granted him access to their silver well.

Sure, it had taken a hundred years or more to convince them of the harmlessness of his desire to spy into its black waters, and Freya kept clicking her tongue distrustfully when she caught him around the well, but he had still won their little skirmish.

She had been cross with him – only for a short amount of time, and yet too long for Gwaine’s taste – and she had shunned his company for a while in an exasperated attempt to chasten him. Nimueh had exploited that brief timespan and she had slowly become a comfortable presence in his static life, filling the gaps left by Freya. Honestly, Gwaine suspected Nimueh had been prompted by his sister, who genuinely feared what he might do when left unattended for too long, even in a safe space as Avalon.

It didn’t stop him from feeling grateful.

“Don’t look for too long, Gwaine. It doesn’t suit you.”

It was still strange seeing Nimueh without her crown. He had grown accustomed to it. He had never bowed in front of her, Queen or not, but the role had fitted her just right. In his rare recollections of his childhood, Nimueh had always carried herself with a proud and regal demeanour, and her words used to cut through the air like orders.

It had been plain natural to acknowledge her as royalty in Avalon. It would take him some time to readjust to her crownless position.

He grinned and leaned his elbows comfortably on the sides of the silver well.

“It suited me just fine in life.”

Nimueh scoffed.

“Please, you’ve never been a watcher. You were a fighter since the day you were born. Troubling little pest.”

“But I never did anything substantial before Arthur, didn’t I? It was like watching.”

“Lying liar!” she teased him, wickedly amused. “You lived, Gwaine. You couldn’t keep still, it’s not in your blood. We’ve always been a restless lot.”

“Maybe now I’m enjoying the rest I’ve never had.”

She laughed, mockingly.

“Look at you. You yourself can’t believe it.”

“We’ll see, Nimueh. We’ll see. I have the time to change my mind.”

The woman groaned, “You’ve listened to your sister for too long. You talk like her.”

“Careful, Nimueh. You’re speaking of the Rosemary Queen now,” he teased her back.

“She’s mild, of course she’s perfect for the Rosemary.”

She was still bitter about the decadence of her throne. Gwaine thought she was also saddened by Morgause’s fate: Nimueh had been the one to teach the young woman all her magic, after all. But she was not going to admit it in the near future and she certainly wasn’t going to do it with him.

“She’s a good girl,” Gwaine said. He didn’t even try to hide his pride.

“And you’re not.”

“I hope not. Last time I checked I was a man,” he joked.

“Stupid boy,” Nimueh smirked and slapped him on the shoulder. “You’ve always been my favourite, you know?”

Gwaine grimaced, “I suspected that much.”

“It doesn’t mean we are the same, though.” She arched her eyebrow and eyed him meaningfully, “Or that we’re equals.”

“Sure thing, madam Majesty.”

Nimueh laughed, and for a short while, Gwaine felt good enough.

Time was beginning to run short. He knew.

Tic toc, Gwaine. Tic toc.

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

Coming back to life wasn’t what they had expected.

They never remembered at first, and it was fortunate that they didn’t, because memories of war and slaughter, but also of sex and responsibilities, called for very troubled and dysfunctional children.

Morgana’s and Arthur’s childhoods were blessed by ignorance, only the casual sense of déjà-vu hitting them senselessly from time to time until the day the chest of memories opened up and it all came back in a deluge of lives raining down their brains, submerging them under old feelings and emotions.

It didn’t come so much as a shock for Arthur as it did for Morgana, because with the memories her magic awoke too, and every time she had to learn how to control it in a matter of days, before people discovered her. She got caught only once, and she swore it would never happen again.

It seemed that kings and stakes were a very fortunate combination, one that was reluctant to fade even after centuries.

Arthur arrived one day later, and when he found out he ran the bailiff through with his sword. He got poisoned in retaliation, even if the annals stated that Arthur had fallen ill all of a sudden.

Morgana brought it up each time she needed to remember him he should always think, then second-guess his thinking, and act only afterwards, possibly following her advice, thank you very much.

Coincidences and fate brought them together from time to time. Once. Twice. They died and they were born again several times until they stopped keeping count.

Sometimes they were siblings, sometimes cousins. Sometimes they were lucky enough to be friends. Only thrice they didn’t even manage to make it to the same country, but they were already three times too many.

They lived through the French and the American Revolution. During the Second World War Morgana cried at night and became a nurse, and Arthur fought on the front lines because people being exterminated for who they were hit too close home for both of them, even after aeons. The thin line between past and present blurred, Morgana had her skin perpetually crawling because of the blood on her hands and the magic seeping from her fingers. Arthur collected dog tags, learning emery names and chanting them like prayers. He wrote letters for miserable relatives even as his hand hurt like hell and his lack of sleep made him feverish.

They died in the conflict, and in their last moments, they thought the trenches had never looked so much like Camlann.

It was the Sixties and it was in Boston when Arthur and Morgana were living in the same suburb and they had basically grown up together. It felt so much like their first life it was almost perfect, at least until the day Morgana met a man who reminded her of Alvar, and he spoke to her of travels and adventures and taking her to see the world. She didn’t know any better, her memories came back only a few weeks after his midnight kisses, fatally too late.

She was three months pregnant, her lover nowhere to be found, when Arthur stepped in and told Morgana’s father he was going to marry her, claiming the child to be his.

The older man punched him right in the face and split his lip, but he gave his permission for a small, private ceremony. He knew right away Arthur wasn’t really the child’s father because Morgana and he had been acting like brother and sister since they were ten, but the fucking blackguard who had knocked up his daughter was nowhere to be found, so he settled for Arthur’s bloody nose.

The wedding was a quick affair, but it was still decorous and happy enough. Morgana looked breath-taking in her wedding dress, lips painted red and breasts just slightly fuller thanks to the early stages of her pregnancy.

Arthur and she lived the rest of their life sufficiently content and sufficiently quiet, wondering where their friends were. They doted on their son and only rarely indulged in the fantasy of another child. They talked about trying to have one of their own, a daughter with Arthur’s blonde locks or a son with Morgana’s smile. They never got quite up to it.

If Morgana noticed how uncomfortable Arthur was with her naked body, she learned very soon not to tease him about it. They had been living within strict societies for all their lives, and people bragging about a sexual revolution held little to no consequence at all on their existence, even if male singers paraded in women clothes and the magazines gossiped about people’s strangest habits and inclinations.

She never pressured him, understanding Arthur’s doubts better than Arthur himself.

She found a job as a secretary and she managed to make her parents proud despite that shotgun wedding, about which everyone still whispered.

Morgana and Arthur moved to a new neighbourhood when their son was only three, where no one would know them or their history.

They never talked of Merlin or Gwaine.

They made it work.

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

Morgana was in the kitchen, the volume of the radio way louder than what was deemed to be polite, but she didn’t really care if the neighbours were going to complain.

She loved the music of that specific decade. It was catchy and high-spirited, and sometimes unexpectedly moving. She found herself singing popular tunes more often than not: on her way to work, while taking her son to school or doing the laundry – she had managed to teach Arthur how to feed himself half-properly without setting fire to the house, but she wasn’t risking her clothes with his terrible housewife skills.

She was humming a song from one of those fashionable Brit singers, swinging her hips and tapping her feet rhythmically. She was in a good mood.

“Happy, are we?”

She startled and turned. Arthur was leaning against the doorframe, looking at her with a placid smile on his face.

“You’re home early.”

“There wasn’t much to do in the garage today.”

She chuckled. It was strange to think of a legendary king working as a mechanic, dressed in cheap overalls and with grease on his hands, but things had a weird way of changing while staying the same.

Arthur’s father owned a good garage and wished for his son to take over the business, so of course Arthur did his best to make the man happy. That, and he was enamoured with cars, with their fastness, the sense of stability, the smell of gasoline and varnish. Arthur was cut out for modernity and domestic technology, that comfortable world where mankind had crafted a special kind of magic accessible for everyone.

Morgana bit her lips, hiding her smile. She went back to stirring the meat stewing in the pot and threw in a pinch of pepper.

She felt Arthur’s hands on her hips, and he craned his neck to nose around.

“Seems good.”

“Of course it’s good, it’s not you who’s cooking.”

“I’ve learned how to cook,” he bristled.

“I taught you, and we never moved past the simple avoidance of starvation.”

Arthur pouted and she laughed.

She had never expected life with him to be so easy. In all her reincarnations, she had enjoyed the good luck of living through only four or maybe five decent marriages, where she hadn’t hated her husband, the man hadn’t beaten her or treated her as a vulgar vessel for his seed, and a nice fondness had accompanied them until death had done them apart. Neither of those marriages had been as comfortable as the one with Arthur. Which was weird, because they’d often been siblings, and even when they were not, they acted as such. Only the French court had rumoured them to be lovers, but everyone was everybody’s lover at Versailles.

“Oh, I like this one!” she exclaimed, recognising the first notes of a song.

She singsonged the words with her eyes closed, so she didn’t notice the sheer affection in Arthur’s glance.

He was looking at her profile, at her full lips, and at the soft glow her skin always acquired during winter. After centuries of knowing her, it was still a wonder to Arthur how she managed to constantly appear so beautiful. It could happen that things changed slightly between a reincarnation and the next one, blonde hair instead of dark, greener eyes, or other details even smaller than those, but Morgana was always, always perfectly enchanting, with her soft voice and soft mouth and soft palms.

His hands were still on her hips, and she was humming melodiously, whispering of a ‘poor little Greenie’. Arthur chortled affectionately and he pulled Morgana against his chest. She let out an annoyed humph, but she started laughing as soon as Arthur began swinging his hips, clumsily trying to match with the music.

He was a terrible dancer but in that moment he couldn’t care less. He had Morgana pressed against him, and she was singing and following his awkward steps, and she was beautiful. That moment was beautiful, and he loved her for giving him a home where he could return, where he could be himself one hundred percent, ghastly old memories and outdated chivalric morals included.

He made her twirl, once and twice, and the song had changed and they were totally out of tune now, but it wasn’t important as long as Morgana kept giggling like that, and Arthur himself couldn’t contain his smile.

He lifted her in his arms, and Morgana held his shoulders while he spun so fast it actually made him feel a little high.

When he put her back with her feet on the floor, Morgana was breathless and tipsy, and she sat on the kitchen table before losing her balance. Her cheeks were red and there was laughter in her eyes, and for an instant, Arthur was so filled with love and happiness and contentment that he didn’t think. He closed the distance between them, and he kissed her on the lips.

If there was a moment when Morgana felt shocked, it came and passed without him noticing because soon her arms were around his neck, and she was spreading her legs to let him closer to her. He buried his hands in her hair, the scent of her shampoo intoxicating like wine, but then he felt her tongue licking his lips and Arthur nearly panicked.

 _This is Morgana, it’s Morgana, I can’t_ , he thought, but only for a second, because that was exactly the point: she was Morgana, not his sister, or not only that, not anymore. She was a person of her own, a woman and a confidante, a lover, a friend, the mother of his child – because the kid sleeping in the room next to theirs was his son, no matter who had sired him – his wife and his family. She was Morgana, and he was Arthur, and they’d come full circle.

Her lips were so soft.

“Yuck.”

They both jumped and glanced at the kitchen door. Their son was standing on the threshold, his arms crossed and a disgusted pout on his plump face.

Arthur watched his childish scowl for maybe a second before bursting out laughing. Morgana slapped him on his chest and moved him away.

“Ywain, sweetie. Have you already finished your homework?”

“Yes. I’m hungry. Can we have dinner now that Da’ is home?”

Morgana checked the clock on the wall.

“Have some more patience, it’s almost ready. Why don’t you ask your father if he wants to watch the TV with you?”

Ywain’s eyes gleamed, and the kid didn’t even have to ask. Arthur was already beside him, hand on his small shoulder, because the brat had known how to win his father over since he was four.

The rest was just their usual evening. They had dinner together, Ywain complained about school, and Morgana was relieved about that creepy guy from her office being moved to another department. Arthur had always little to say, comments about engines and clutches hardly comprehensible for a child and absolutely boring for Morgana, but he was fine with that. He was the one who took Ywain to bed and read him stories while Morgana showered, so he was totally good. He was also the one who washed the dishes at the end of every meal, which was less good, but since Arthur and Morgana were both royalty reborn as commoners and she had no trouble sweeping the floor, he could very well stoop to such trivial chores. That, and Morgana would hex him or mix his coffee with salt if he tried to refuse.

He brushed his teeth and changed into his nigh-clothes. When he got to bed, Morgana was already waiting for him, reading a book.

“Is he asleep?” she whispered.

“Half and half.”

“You should stop reading Tolkien to him.”

Arthur took it almost as a personal offence.

“But it’s fun,” he retorted.

Morgana looked him sideways.

“He didn’t want to walk the dog yesterday because he was afraid of trolls.”

“What did you tell him?”

“That if any troll dared to come near him, mommy was going to make the troll regret it.”

Arthur snorted and he slipped under the blankets.

“See? Problem solved. Tolkien is alright.”

Morgana chuckled and shook her head, “Ass.”

He fell asleep with Morgana’s fingers in his hair, one of her hands holding her paperback edition, the other caressing him softly.

She put down her book almost two hours later, but she waited before turning off the light. She lay down under the bedcovers, facing a sleeping Arthur.

He didn’t snore. She had always believed him to be a snorer, but Arthur slept with his lips slightly parted, like a child, and he breathed quietly. His expression was peaceful. Not innocent, because even in his sleep Arthur had a way of retaining that air of resoluteness that characterised him. He would always look like a leader, even when he sipped his coffee from a mug or when he asked her if it was okay to spike her mother’s cocoa with sherry just for the fun of it – and no, it wasn’t okay, but they still did it from time to time because it was, in fact, fun.

She had kissed his lips that evening. Tasted them.

Morgana knew Arthur was fed up with imposed marriages, way more than she was. He’d had enough of pretending, even if the first person he was lying to was no one but himself. He was weary of women he didn’t like sharing in his bed, tired of forcing himself to find pleasure in a body that just wouldn’t feel right, although it wasn’t wrong enough to actually result repulsive.

That was why she was so grateful for what he had done for her. No one had asked him to step forward and save her from the shame, from the uncertainty, but Arthur had done it anyway, even if that meant condemning himself to yet another passionless marriage, to the uncomfortable doubt of being _defective_. Her safety – her honour, because he still reasoned in those terms – had been more important than his own respite.

Morgana thought it was only fair to allow him the space he very much needed, but after the first years of embarrassment and modesty, the borders of their intimacy had started to get messy and just a little bit slippery. She guessed it was due when two people shared a house, their bathroom, and a bed.

She was well-acquainted with the feel of Arthur’s hard chest pressed against her back while they slept, she passed him towels when he forgot to take the fresh ones after he showered, and he often spent entire evenings rubbing her belly when her period cramps were too painful, and it wasn’t strange or too close or awkward, because it was just them.

Maybe, just maybe, things wouldn’t be too uncomfortable between them if they tried. The Gods knew how much Arthur needed it: to touch without feeling angry, to be touched without wondering if he was somehow broken.

He wasn’t.

She moved a lock of blonde hair away from his eyes, and Arthur stirred, grumbling.

“Sorry,” she whispered.

“Why aren’t you sleeping?” he groaned, still half-asleep.

“I was thinking.”

“About?”

“Us.”

That woke him up in an instant.

He opened his eyes to search her face, worried, “Are you unhappy?”

Morgana frowned.

“What? No. Don’t be stupid,” she scoffed.

“Then what?”

Morgana sucked her lip thoughtfully. It was a silly quirk she had taken from Freya, and after aeons of not seeing her, she still hadn’t been able to shrug it off.

“You kissed me tonight,” she slowly said.

“Sorry, I wasn’t thinking,” he apologised, but Morgana tapped his nose, and he had to refrain from slapping her hand away out of a childish instinct.

“I kissed you back.”

“You did,” he prudently confirmed.

“It wasn’t like last time,” she whispered.

Arthur sighed, clearly giving up any hope of sleep.

“No. So what now?”

Morgana curled up under the sheets, one cool foot sneaking in between his calves.

“I think I know almost better than you that you’re not comfortable with women,” she murmured, already expecting his sharp defensiveness.

“I’m not what?” he snapped.

Morgana shushed him, pointing at the door. Ywain was a light sleeper, just like her, and Arthur was awful at keeping his voice down.

She tightened her lips and spoke under her breath, “Come on. It must have crossed your mind.”

“I don’t care for what you’re implying.”

Morgana sighed.

She hoped she hadn’t stepped over any invisible limit. She was fairly happy with things the way they were, and she didn’t want to lose what they had. Still, it would have felt dishonest keeping her mouth shut.

“I just want you to know it’s fine. Either if you want it, or if you don’t. And I don’t care about the whys you would as long as you’re alright.”

She left to Arthur the task of catching her meaning. Being too explicit would scare him.

He hesitated and moved his eyes away from hers. Morgana waited, but when he still didn’t answer anything, she turned to switch off the light and decided it was time to try to get some sleep.

It wasn’t an urgent matter, after all, and they were used to taking it slow.

In the dark, she heard him breathing.

“I– I think I want. Maybe,” he whispered, and she shivered as though tens of cold drops were running down her spine.

She turned again to face Arthur and she searched for his hand under the warm darkness of their blankets, and their fingers intertwined.

“Not like last time, though.”

He chuckled and complied, “God, no. Not ever.”

She smiled nervously even if Arthur couldn’t see her and she snuggled closer to him. His body was firm, made of muscles and sinews, but there was something reassuring in the quiver she caught with her fingertips when she touched his chest.

Arthur didn’t move back when she caressed him down his stomach, and she put a knee between his legs, higher than usual, almost up to his thighs. She didn’t pressure him further, waiting for a gesture, a silent permission.

He trusted her.

Arthur sighed, and the muscles of his abdomen were shaking. Morgana stopped her delicate caress, ready to leave him be, but he put his arms around her waist and pulled her closer, his breath tickling her face. She smelled the minty scent of toothpaste and soap, and then something warmer, a specific trace that was forever entrapped in Arthur’s skin.

Morgana moved her hand to his neck, tilting gently his head so that their lips would meet. She kissed him, slow and careful, and when their mouths opened and tongues met, Arthur moaned and held her tighter, his fingers digging into her hips.

There was a tenuous warmth building up in her belly, sparked by affection more than by passion, but it was however welcomed. She brought her knee higher up between Arthur’s thighs, and she rubbed herself against him, breaking their kiss only to move lower to his neck.

He gasped, sensitive to the touch of her mouth, and he rolled on his back, hauling Morgana onto him. He let his hands slide down her nightdress, and they both shivered when he touched bare skin.

She whispered tremulously, asking him to go on, and Arthur hummed something in her ear when she rested her hips on his. She closed her eyes and let herself enjoy the careful touch of Arthur’s calloused fingers.

And it wasn’t like that infamous last time when their son had been sleeping at his schoolfriend’s house and Arthur and Morgana had gotten so drunk with wine she had tripped against the kitchen table, and they had both fallen on the floor because of Arthur’s sloppy attempt at helping her.

That time they had made intoxicated, stupefied sex, made up mostly of tongue and moans and messy limbs, and they had been barely conscious of who they were, tangled memories of that French lover or of this waifish serving girl. In the morning, they had woken up on the cold floor tiles with crumpled, half-undone clothes, both of them embarrassed and subjugated by the mother of all headaches.

This, though, wasn’t like that. Not at all.

Morgana touched Arthur and caressed him tenderly, and he undressed her almost as reverently. Her breath hitched when he ventured with his fingers between her thighs and he soon learned how to suffocate his moans against her shoulder when Morgana opened her legs to let him in.

They fell asleep with swollen lips, still tightly pressed one against the other.

Morgana had a dream that night, and when she woke up, she kissed Arthur on the lips, desperate for closeness and reassurance, and he kissed her back, hungrily, lovingly.

When she started shaking, he held her, and he didn’t let go.

  

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

One winter evening, they found out they were already old and wrinkly beyond their age, their son was an adult man with a family of his own, they had small grandchildren who they rarely saw but who religiously called them on the telephone every weekend.

Morgana’s mind was progressively failing her and Arthur was extremely careful around her. He never missed a single moment when she was lucid. He would have never forgiven himself if he did.

They talked about Camelot, about how they had rarely met people from their past, and how strange and almost alienating it was when they had, since each time they had realised their friends couldn’t remember their previous lives.

When Arthur brought it up with Morgana, she said it was because they had never been in Avalon.

Of course they hadn’t. They had no need for that long healing, unlike Arthur or Morgana. Their wounds had been normal, caused by old age and common griefs and emotions. Their pains had never started wars.

“But Lancelot?”

Lancelot was the only one they had met more often than not. He was there even during the reincarnations Morgana had been missing. Sadly, their paths had never crossed in this life, but Arthur would never forget the day the bomb had hit his mates and him in trenches during the War: Lancelot had been right next to him, he had been the one to give the alarm. He had launched himself on the bomb, but not fast enough.

Every single time Arthur and Lancelot had met, Gwen had been there too, mysteriously linked to his former knight, sometimes by friendship, sometimes by something more intimate. It had been oddly soothing, finding them together again and again.

“Oh, Arthur.”

Morgana had a way of uttering his name that made him feel like a very slow child.

Arthur knitted his eyebrows.

“What?”

“Of course he remembers. But he’s always giving you the chance to win Gwen back. He knows you truly loved her.”

“As he does. She means the absolute world to him. Why would he be so stupid?”

“Because you are his king, and he is the noblest of your knights.”

“I should talk to him.”

“Yes, next time you should.”

He would. Because Lancelot needed to know that what Arthur had felt and still felt for Gwen was true, but looking at the two of them together, at Lancelot and Gwen, Arthur would never dare to come between them. As much as it hurt to admit it, Gwen and Lancelot just looked so _right_ together, so sickeningly sweet and pure, and what Arthur once had with her could never compare.

It made him ache. It made him wonder if he and Morgana would ever find someone close to what Gwen and Lancelot were for each other.

He didn’t say it out loud, though. He knew Morgana probably had an answer for that too and said answer hurt.

“One day they will all remember, Arthur.”

He hadn’t realised he had zoned out until Morgana spoke.

“What?”

She smiled at him, and he trembled. Morgana’s lips were thin and cracked, and her hands shook just a little when she put some grey curls behind her ears. She had never looked so old and tired, never.

She had always kept her hair long, refusing to braid it or gather it up in a bun as many women of her age – of that time – did, and Arthur had been happy to weave his fingers through her soft locks like any loving husband would do. He hadn’t noticed when the grey had overrun the dark brown. That day had slipped away without him being aware of it.

And now his wife was there, sitting in a creaky rocking chair in front of the fireplace, two woollen covers on her knees and crow’s feet around her huge green eyes. Her physical pain was making her wither from the inside, eating her like a parasite, and Arthur was so scared he had played ignorant for all that time.

“There’s a drift coming, and it’s getting close. They will all remember, Arthur. We will meet, and Leon will be Leon, and Gwen will be Gwen… they will all remember,” she sighed. “I think your warlock feels it too. He can’t be too far away now.”

The mention of Merlin got Arthur queasy. Almost twenty years of growing up side by side, and thirty more of being married, and they had never uttered that name. In his absence, Merlin had always been a very consistent part of Arthur’s life and of his marriage with Morgana.

There was also another specific ghost at the corner of Morgana’s eyes, and Arthur had been extra-scrupulous in avoiding calling him out, especially since their son’s birth.

He didn’t understand why she was bringing out Merlin now, and with such easiness.

Morgana sighed and massaged her temples. She let out a pained moan.

Arthur tensed.

“You alright?”

“Yes, don’t worry. It’ll pass in a moment.”

“Do you want me to fetch your pills?”

“No, no. They make me all tipsy. I hate them.”

Ywain had been suggesting to hospitalise her, but Arthur had always downright refused. Any institution would mistake Morgana for crazy, while Arthur was still very able to make out the sense of her words.

He watched her for a long moment, waiting for the tell-tale haze in her eyes that usually marked Morgana’s going astray with her thoughts, mixing past with present and life with dreams. She often dreamed nowadays, and her nightmares were turning worse and gorier night by night.

Morgana was still looking self-possessed, though, even if a little weary, and he relaxed.

“It’s okay to miss him, Arthur.”

“Who?”

“Arthur…” she scolded him softly, and she rolled her eyes at him.

Right.

He grimaced.

“How comes we never found him? When I left Avalon… I don’t know, I’ve always figured he was going to be right there. How many times have we come back, Morgana? And he’s never found me?”

Morgana shrugged and covered herself more comfortably with her blanket.

“He knew better than that.”

“Are you saying he purposefully avoided me?”

“More like he chose not to go after you.”

Arthur had learned to read perfectly into Morgana’s words approximately during the previous century, so he didn’t even frown when he asked, “What is that you aren’t telling me?”

“Have you ever wondered why I, one of the Crowns of Avalon, am here and not there?”

“So you could keep on tormenting me?”

She snorted, “Please, be serious.”

“No. Zero clues. By all means, inform me.”

“I am a needle for the scales and a fulcrum. I’m purely neutral, but I am prone to corruption. As long as you are with me, I can keep myself pure. When I am here and alive, people with magic are born, and those people need guidance. I have you, and they have Merlin. I stumble when I’m without you, Arthur, and they would too without Merlin. He has been teaching them how to stand on their own two feet, but they are a lot of people, little brother. It’s hard to keep track of all of them. He’s been doing a wonderful job, though.”

Arthur didn’t miss how Morgana had called him ‘brother’. It was a habit she had been falling into since their son had moved out. She did that only before retreating back into the mist of her memories, or when she was touching her magic.

With the passing of years, of lifetimes, she had started to rely less and less on her magic. Science and technology had helped but she had never let go of her dreams, and he could remember many a time when their son had gotten over the flu after a flit of her hand.

She resumed, “He is managing only because he’s never let the thought of you preoccupy him. I’m sure Merlin knows the moment you’re back in his life, nothing else will matter as much.”

The calm certainty with which Morgana spoke gave him goosebumps all along his arms. He tried to brush it off.

“That’s because the idiot can’t focus on two things at once.”

Morgana laughed. A true, heartfelt, rich laugh. Arthur ended up following her, and soon his cheeks were hurting and his head felt dizzy, but he kept smiling. He was glad that Morgana was with him, glad that even better times were approaching if he were to trust her.

He dearly wished his sister was right because he had missed his friends. While he had created a whole new life for Morgana and himself, it was still lonely without the familiar faces of Elyan and Percival. And God, had he gone too long without having to suffer through Gwaine’s horrific pick-up lines.

Much like with Merlin, Gwaine had never shown up. Not once.

Arthur brooded for some quiet moments, asking himself whether it was fine to talk about the second ghost in their home.

She had brought up Merlin, after all.

Before he could say anything, Morgana spoke again.

“The plants in the porch need to be watered. Not every day, just twice a week. And you must lock the window in the guest room when there’s wind or it flies open,” she mumbled. “And there’s a string of pearls in my drawer. Nora would love it, so make sure she gets it.”

“You’re blathering.”

Morgana chuckled, and she relaxed in her chair, laying more comfortably against the backrest.

“I won’t wake up tomorrow, Arthur. I just want you to know what to do.”

He glared at her, irritated.

“If this is a joke, it’s terrible, I tell you.”

She shook her head and offered him a bittersweet smile.

“It’s not. I’m sorry, Arthur.”

Somehow, she had always known. Arthur wasn’t sure if it was because she was the Thyme Queen or because she was a witch, but she had always felt, in every life, when his or her death were approaching.

It seemed that this time she was going to go first.

Arthur tried to stay as calm as possible and to hide his sorrow. No matter how many lives had passed, being left without her was always a shock. At least this time they had managed to be together until the end.

“I’ll help you to bed, then.”

“No, it’s okay here. I like the fire.” She looked at the fireplace and at the warming flames, “I’ve never had the chance to have it so peaceful before. It will be nice.”

Arthur gulped down the knot in his throat.

“Can I stay next to you?”

“Yes.”

He rose up to sit on the couch next to her chair, his knees aching a little bit. Old. They were both getting old. Except, Morgana wasn’t going to get any older than that.

He took her hand in his and held it tight.

“Thank you, Morgana.”

She laughed softly, “For what? I should be thanking you. Of all the marriages I was forced to go through, this was the first time I was really happy.”

Morgana looked at him and smiled, “It’s been nice to be your wife, Arthur. You made it a good life.”

She bowed her head, so he could kiss her forehead. She was a little feverish, and Arthur ignored the single tear urging to fall down from his eye.

It wasn’t the end. It was going to be just a quick stop. A break, a pause.

“You made it easy enough.”

Morgana laughed, and she closed her eyes.

“I think I will sleep now,” she sighed.

Arthur murmured something in the back of his throat. He closed his eyes too.

When he woke up the next morning, Morgana was smiling but her hand was cold and lifeless. Arthur kissed it gently, pressing his lips against her thin fingers.

He got to the phone, dialled his son’s number and put the receiver against his ear.

He waited.

One ring.

Two rings.

_Click._

“Hi, Ywain. Sorry I woke you up.”

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

“You should go, Gwaine.”

“Nah. I’m fine where I am.”

Freya didn’t even care anymore if he was spending entire days at the silver well. She only hoped he could find within its waters the answers he was looking for, but she highly doubted that. He had already learned all that he needed from the well. The rest of his questions would never meet their solution in there.

Freya suspected that Gwaine’s demons wouldn’t be conquered until he secluded himself in Avalon. To everyone, the isle was a place to recover, but her brother had managed to turn it into his own personal prison, where he could finally be punished for his crimes.

And what terrible crimes they were: believing, hoping, caring.

Freya sighed.

“You shouldn’t be afraid of going. It’s not like you’re leaving me alone, don’t worry.”

“It’s not that,” he denied.

“It’s not only that,” she corrected him.

Gwaine smirked and shook his head.

“You know what? You’re awfully good at the pesky little sister thing. You’ve mastered it.”

Freya laughed heartily, “I do my best, brother.”

Gwaine passed his arm around her shoulders, and she leaned against him, accepting his tender touch.

She was going to miss his presence, but at that point, it was essential that he faced his fears, and if he kept refusing to do so in Avalon, then she had no other choice but to send him back to achieve his peace through life. She had already sealed away enough of his breakdowns. He could make it.

“Gwaine, I know you haven’t had a family for a very long time but you’ve been in Avalon long enough. Nimueh and I will still be here when you come back. We won’t vanish.”

“I know that.”

“Then what are you waiting for?”

He hummed and he shrugged his shoulders.

“Courage, I guess.”

“You don’t need any courage for this. You only need your strength,” Freya argued.

Her brother frowned.

“Do you think I have enough of that?”

“I know it’s enough for two.”

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

Merlin abandoned his cane against the wall of the cavern and he stretched his legs, joints cracking like trampled twigs.

“Well, that was a nice walk.”

The middle-aged woman beside him was breathless. She took a sip from her water bottle and moved behind her ears the wavy locks that had fallen from her ponytail.

She panted, “How did you even make it until here? You’re all white and crinkled, you should feel worse than me!”

Merlin chuckled raucously, “Never underestimate Dragoon the Great, my dear. Now come, I must show you something.”

He waved his hand and a dim opalescence lit the way, showing a path carved among black cobbles and sharp-edged stones.

“Mind your steps, Rosie. This place got a little surly over the years. It has learned to protect its secrets.”

“You’re not making any sense.”

“Bah. I will in a few moments.”

He guided her across the short tunnel and into the stomach of the cave. He welcomed the sight of the bright and gleaming crystals as though they were old friends. Under some aspects, they were.

“Now, welcome to the Crystal Cave, Rosie dear.”

Rose widened her eyes, slack-jawed.

“Shit!”

Merlin laughed cheerfully.

“Rosie, Rosie! Show some respect.”

“You brought me to the fucking Crystal Cave. It’s the seat of all magic!”

He pointed at her a scolding finger, “Now, now, it’s the source, not the seat. The seat is elsewhere. Come on, I taught you for a reason.”

She huffed, “It’s just semantics.”

“It’s magic.”

“And half of it is made up by freakish semantics.”

Merlin smiled and shook his head. He liked Rose: she was mulish and brazen and she had a way of reminding him of so many people he had loved in his first youth. He knew she was going to be a good guide for the newcomers and a fine leader for those who had already arrived at their sanctuary in the Isle of the Blessed.

“Care to guess why I brought you here?”

“Care to explain?” she retorted.

He snorted, “Fine, no theatrics. You’re clipping my wings here, Rosie.”

“You’re the most powerful sorcerer to ever live, there’s no need to show off,” she bit back.

Merlin pouted.

“You’re mean.”

Rose crossed her arms and glared at him with a no-nonsense attitude.

She used to be so much more polite when she was a child. Ah, good old times.

“Cave. Crystal. Do tell.”

“Well, like I said while correcting some misinterpreting notions of yours, this is the source of all magic. The Crystal Cave has been mine to protect since the times of Camelot, and I’ve been using it to find the new warlocks and witches and to guide them all to our Isle. Now I want you to take over this role: use the Cave, find the young sorcerers and take them home.”

Rose frowned.

“Why me?”

“Because I know you. Your magic is strong, and your heart is in the right place. I can trust you with our brethren.”

The woman mused for a couple of moments, then she sighed dramatically.

“I will have to walk this road a lot, won’t I?”

Merlin grinned.

“Oh, it’s good exercise. Why do you think I’m so fit?”

“Magic?”

“Shush.”

His Rosie scoffed, and she muttered an insult in his direction. He should have never taught her to use the word ‘clotpole’: it brought back a lot of unasked memories.

Merlin sighed, feeling a bit more like the hoary old man he looked like.

“When I was a young boy…” Merlin stopped himself and chuckled. “Well, the first time I was a young boy, there were hundreds more crystals in this cave.”

Rose grimaced, worried.

“What does it mean? Is magic weaker now?”

“No. No, no, it’s not. Quite the opposite, to my reckoning. There’s just less of it. But it’s a good thing,” he assured her, patting her shoulder jovially. “There have always been three sides of magic, Rosie. Or there were when I was born. Dark magic, light magic, and then that tricky thing that is neutral magic. Not good, not evil. Just magic. But hundreds of years ago, the seat of dark magic fell. And today, my dear, the last creature born of dark magic dies.”

“Dark magic won’t exist anymore?”

Merlin nodded. His smile was enthusiastic.

“Exactly. I’ve worked for so many lives with some friends of mine to make sure no one would ever fall into the temptation of the dark arts. Mankind is already very adept at causing pain without the heed of dark magic. Today, I see all my efforts come to fruition. Even if someone might ever wish to cause harm again with magic, there just isn’t any dark magic left in the world to channel, not even the tiniest crumble.”

“How is this possible? You’ve always taught us that magic is woven into the very fabric of life.”

“Yes. And that’s why creatures like the Fomorrahs or even the Grims have all died out. There is no dark magic left to sustain them.”

Rosie looked concerned.

“Will it happen to all creatures of magic? To us too?”

“No, dear. No. It’s just the seat of dark magic that has fallen. The Crown of Thyme is still very alive, and so is the Rosemary. Well, not really alive at the moment, but they’re in good health.”

“Merlin, I don’t understand a word of what you’re saying.”

“I’m sorry, dear, I’m sorry,” he apologised, too filled with excitement to really feel any guilt. “It’s something you will learn one day. I have left you books and notes. You will use them to educate yourself and teach to the others as well.”

“Won’t you be with us?”

“No, not like in the past. I will come from time to time. You’re my family, I don’t want you to think I’ve abandoned you. But it’s time for you now to learn how to stand on your own, and for me to go somewhere else.”

Rose put her hands on her hips, scowling like a mother vexed by her child’s antics.

It looked hilarious, especially because Merlin had known her and raised her since she was nine.

“And where the fuck would that be?”

Merlin beamed.

“To my king.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dlin-dlon! Usual piece of information: in the legends Morgana was married, although unhappily, and she had a son called Ywain/Iwain/Yvain who later became king of Reghed.  
> Quick maths: in this life Morgana and Arthur were born in the late Forties, soon after dying in WWII. They got married around the late Sixties (’65 perhaps?), and died quite young around the late Nineties, I would say 1997 for her and 1999 for him.  
> The “male singers paraded in women clothes” is a Bowie reference, because I’m trash and he was absolutely glorious and a gift to all humanity. Same goes for that “Poor little Greenie” lyrics, it’s from Bowie’s Jean Genie, 1973. I like to think Morgana is a fan.  
> I’m not even going to apologise about *the* Arthur/Morgana scene. I would call them a guilty pleasure of mine, but I don’t feel guilty at all, only pleased. I’m totally going to write a short spin-off based only on their marital life.  
> The Crystal Cave is Cerebro and Merlin is the true founder of Hogwarts. Just kidding. Except not really. I was so tempted to call Rose ‘Minerva’.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You may have noticed the chapter count has changed. I'm so sorry, I don't know what I'm doing, never knew. I just look at these characters and beg them to have some fucking mercy. They have none.  
> Also, I have a feeling Morgana is dealing with some not-so-latent PTSD but can I be honest with you? I actually have no idea. I didn’t research this, I surely didn’t plan this, much like I didn’t plan most of this fanfiction – I’m still wrapping my head around Gwaine seeing ghosts. Really didn’t see that coming. But as I rewatched the show, it fitted somehow. WTF?

Morgana was born in Ireland, her father worked for a fancy fashion brand and he and her mother were happily married for eleven years until her father came out and her mother started calling him names and quickly filed for divorce. Morgana moved to England with him. She and her mother had never got along well to begin with: she kept saying Morgana was naturally hostile towards every mother figure apart from her father – she was _very_ bitter about her husband’s sexual orientation. Plus, she was paltry – which was laughable. Ish.

Well, jokes on her, because Morgana’s father liked to outwit every single stereotype coined by mankind, probably in an attack-first defence policy, but Morgana still found it actually touching when he told her he was going to be both mummy and daddy for her, and also everything else she should ever need, because she would always be her daddy’s little girl, and if Morgana wished for the moon then he would damn right bring it to her. Except he didn’t say ‘damn’ because she was twelve when the divorce became final at last, and both her parents were still very keen on keeping her safe from swearwords.

Morgana adored her father. He had the blondest hair and the darkest eyes, and even as a child she got a sense that he looked so much like someone else, but she couldn’t quite put her finger on it. It was frustrating, but he was her home and she knew she was lucky to have a father like him.

Morgana thought he was everything she needed.

It wasn’t until she met her English neighbours’ son, Arthur, that she started to feel something was amiss. Every time she saw the child, Morgana would be filled with an odd sense of longing, and she couldn’t quite understand why, because Arthur and she barely knew each other and she wasn’t even sure she liked him.

On school days, they walked to the same bus stop, and some weeks they had lunch together on Sunday because Morgana’s father was extremely easy-going and had quickly become friends with Arthur’s parents.

The child was two years younger than her and Morgana couldn’t help but thinking he sounded awfully stupid every time he opened his goddamn mouth – about that strict swearwords policy… yeah, her father shouldn’t have left Morgana anywhere near his colleagues. They were very stressed people – yet there was something which, much like her father’s looks, she couldn’t exactly place about him and that she found endearing. Familiar.

Then one day, some young boys tried to bully her in the schoolyard. Word had spread that Morgana’s father had a _boyfriend_ , and that pack of fools had nothing better to do than try to corner her and make fun of her.

Well, Morgana spat in the face of the tallest one and kicked in the shins the boy immediately next to her. At that point, she knew she was going to get a beating before any of the professors could even notice she was in trouble, and she braced herself for a punch that never came.

Two of the boys shrieked and Arthur was there, kicking their arses with all the force and conviction an eleven-year-old could master. When one of the bully’s friends tried to attack Arthur from behind, Morgana lost it. She jumped forward and grabbed the boy, biting him hard when he tried to knock her over with his elbow. Someone kneed in the back, and she yelped. She caught a glimpse of the tall boy punching Arthur in the stomach, and she screamed Arthur’s name as if her young life depended on it.

The hustle finally attracted the attention of the professors, who managed to separate them. They all ended up in detention, which was unfair because really, Morgana was the actual victim there and Arthur had stepped in just to defend her, but leave it to the adults to understand absolutely nothing.

Oh, the glorious mess their parents made when they found out about it.

Soon after that, Morgana’s father actually enlisted her in a self-defence club so that next time she could kick harder.

Neither Morgana nor Arthur cared much about any of it – although she was positively gloating at the idea of learning how to fight.

Back home, Arthur smiled at Morgana despite his swollen cheek, and she could swear on her life that wasn’t the first time Arthur grinned like that through a split lip.

They finally became friends, because Arthur had stepped in to protect Morgana when she had never asked, and she had sided with him just as naturally. But they bickered. God, how they bickered. Morgana’s father was actually surprised that they could fight like cat and dog for an entire afternoon and still act as though they had each other’s back, two mere children against the whole world, only a second later.

On the other hand, Arthur’s parents adored her, because she was bossy and Arthur admittedly needed someone as headstrong as him to antagonise him from time to time and to remind him that he wasn’t always right.

After a while, Morgana wasn’t the new kid at school anymore, because Lancelot arrived during the winter semester, and he was all tallness and politeness, and the girls from every class were swooning.

Morgana hated his perfect façade with a passion, at least until she found out it wasn’t a façade at all: the boy was really gentle to a fault, and he had a way of keeping her on track during her temper tantrums. So she reluctantly decided she liked him, and she let him meet Arthur.

In a matter of days, the three of them became each other’s shadows, and you could never get one of them without the other two.

Then Morgana started having dreams, and Arthur learned how to climb the tree in front of her window and jump into her bedroom. They kept it quiet and they kept it a secret, hiding even from Lancelot, because they both sensed there was something eerie in Morgana’s nightmares, and it was weird how only Arthur could calm her down with his simple presence, how his body fitted against hers in the bed as if they had been doing it for years.

But it felt right, so it didn’t scare them.

When Morgana turned fifteen, her father told her he would give Arthur a copy of the keys before he broke his neck, and she blushed and stuttered, “I swear we never did anything.”

Her father smiled understandingly and answered, “Yes, I know. That’s why I still haven’t kicked his ass all the way from here to Ireland.”

He had given up the swearwords policy since weeks. It had been a lost cause, anyway.

During her and Lancelot’s upper school years, some envious hens started rumouring Morgana was dating both him and Arthur at the same time, which made Morgana laugh until she sounded hysterical.

It turned out to be actually convenient, though: the girls kept away from Lancelot, saving him the embarrassment of turning them down, and they were downright scared of being caught looking at Arthur, which was even better, because Morgana’s father was gay and so she knew beforehand that her best friend wasn’t exactly interested in female company. Sadly, it also seemed that she knew that way earlier than Arthur himself.

Then months and _time_ passed, and Morgana was merely two days shy of sixteen when she remembered, a flood of lives, languages and places cramming her head. When she saw Arthur waiting at the bus stop, she ran to him and held him tight, hardly refraining from crying. He was clueless, the poor thing, and he awkwardly asked her if everything was okay. He wasn’t very good at handling Morgana when she got emotional.

It took another year before Lancelot started bowing his head discreetly when he saw her.

Three weeks later Arthur rang at her door, and as Morgana opened, he hugged her so forcefully it took her breath away. When he called her, mumbling a crestfallen sob against her collarbone, her name sounded softer in his mouth, enriched by a heartfelt tenderness that hadn’t been there the day before.

Morgana hadn’t realised how deeply she had missed that. She always forgot how much she cherished her bond with Arthur until she got it back. Which was convenient, else she would have consumed herself with nostalgia, waiting for him to truly remember her.

She managed to free one hand and she caressed his hair.

“I’m here, I’m here,” she murmured soothingly.

Arthur was shaking, and he whispered against her shoulder, his words muffled by the soft fabric of her jumper.

“Don’t ever do that again.”

Morgana smiled sweetly although Arthur couldn’t see her, buried as he was with his face against her neck. He was crying silently, her brave king who had endured so many years of hardships and loss.

“I can’t avoid dying, little brother. I’m merely human.”

“You left me alone in that house for two years. Two years, and everything reminded of you.”

Her heart cracked a little. Arthur never took it well when she went first. Like Uther, he was mortally vulnerable to heartbreak. But unlike his father, he rarely reacted with rage. He simply… faded.

“I’m sorry. I’m here now, I won’t leave you.”

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

Her present father looked like the spitting image of Gorlois, yet she didn’t think he was the duke of Tintagel reborn, and if that was a cosmic joke, Morgana didn’t find it funny at all.

Looking at him had become hurtful, and she didn’t want to distance herself from the man, because she had never had a father like him before, but it was tough. She withdrew from him, secluding herself in a depressive self-mutiny before she could realise what she was doing.

The poor man took her aside one night, and he asked if he had done something wrong. If she was ashamed of him because of who he was.

Morgana paled and shook her head, leaving without a word. She crossed the street to bang on Arthur’s door. Her brother hugged her as she cried and raved about being an awful daughter.

“So you ran here instead of talking to him?”

“Maybe.”

“Morgana, that’s something I would do, not you. We need to fix this.”

So she crossed the street again, that second time with Arthur at her side, who all but pushed her back inside her own house.

She talked with her father, explained as best as she could without sounding delirious or nonsensical. She couldn’t say things along the line of “ _You look like my first father whose face I couldn’t even remember until you came into my life._ ” So she simply said she was having a rough time between the upcoming end of the school and the pressure of applying for a good university.

He pretended to buy it only because he saw her honesty when Morgana said she loved him and she would keep loving him forever.

If he thought it strange that Arthur was there while she opened up to him and hugged him tightly, crying on his shoulder, he had the good sense of keeping his mouth shut. He had always known his daughter to be an old soul, and for some untraceable reason he believed Arthur and also that Lancelot boy were just the same as her.

Morgana and her friends crafted their own awkward kind of normal: Arthur’s keychain held both the key to his house and Morgana’s, Lancelot called her ‘milady’ and nodded his head to Arthur as though her brother were still wearing a bloody crown. But she also still considered Arthur her brother, so maybe she wasn’t in the right place to judge.

Lancelot spent the weekends volunteering for fucking everything, dragging Arthur and Morgana with him because they all knew an alarming lot about being sad and misused and abandoned.

Morgana flirted with older boys, always backing down when things looked a little too intense. Arthur blushed awkwardly when she commented on the attractiveness of her flings, and he learned how to push away people while still seeming perfectly friendly. Lancelot… well, he was Lancelot, so girls hung around him as though he were the love Messiah, and he tried to follow Morgana’s advice and kiss them and fool around, but he gave up pretty soon. All three of them not-so-secretly pined over people who they technically hadn’t even met and whom they never mentioned out loud, too afraid of the consequences.

Morgana took pity on Lancelot and started a rumour that he was gay, just so that the girls would stop spreading themselves all over him, although it had proved a fun show to witness. Lancelot was half appalled and half grateful, which was hilarious in itself. The plan backfired when guys began hitting on him. At that point Arthur was livid, Morgana was laughing so hard it made her sound hysterical, and Lancelot was the walking embodiment of embarrassment.

Then Morgana and Lance got their diploma, and things spiralled down for her. Lancelot went to London to learn retail and stuff at his grandparents’ business. He skyped them after a week.

“Leon’s here. He remembers.”

Morgana paled with dread, because no one had ever remembered before, and she wasn’t ready for that. Arthur and Lancelot knew she had changed, they had been in Avalon almost as long as her, they had seen her earning back her sanity. Lancelot had taken Arthur to her to treat his wounds when he had almost lost his hand in World War II. They knew. But no one else did.

Arthur laughed with excitement and raked his hand through his dark hair.

“That’s great!”

No, it wasn’t. It wasn’t great and Morgana was alone in Cambridge.

After a life of marriage and another of being neighbours, Arthur and she had grown so used to constantly being within an arm’s reach, that Morgana had felt no less than uprooted since she had moved to Cambridge to study economics, and she lived for months in a prolonged haze of hysteria, nostalgia and midnight phone calls, both made and received.

She prayed every day she wouldn’t meet anybody from the past she sometimes called her ‘real life’ because she was sure she wasn’t going to make it through.

She came home for summer pale and exhausted, nearly giving her father a heart attack. Arthur got bloodless and shouted in her face, mad with worry, “What the fuck are you doing? Don’t ruin yourself!”

Morgana shut herself in her room, hiding under the bedsheets until Gorlois – no, her father. Not Gorlois, he wasn’t Gorlois, and he wasn’t going to die on her, her father had promised to give her the _moon_ – came to bring her a cup of tea and sat on the floor next to her bed.

“Okay, that’s it. You’re coming back home. You look like a ghost,” he told her.

That was all she needed to recollect herself: she remembered how ghosts truly looked like from someone else’s eyes and the visions still inhabited her nightmares, along with landscapes made up of shot soldiers and corpses eaten by the plague. She couldn’t do that to her father, not to _this_ father.

She wasn’t going to let herself waste away only because Arthur wasn’t there to hold her hand all the time. She was stronger than that. She had managed decently enough at the Tudors’ court, she had been downright spectacular during the first Jacobite rebellion and the third, truculent death aside. She was Morgana Pendragon, and she was magic, and Arthur wasn’t her other side of the coin, he wasn’t a missing half: he was her double. They were two different people, both shining and both of value. Both born to rule. She was strong. She was a chosen Crown, and Freya was counting on her.

It took Morgana a whole day to convince her father, but she went back to Cambridge, and she coped.

She learned what it felt like to have fun with new friends, ignorant of her truths, and she found out sexcapades were a real thing, a very entertaining one to be honest. The hands of those throwaway lovers resulted always somewhat wrong, their touch wasn’t as gentle or as careful as Arthur’s had been, but she wasn’t looking for tenderness. She needed the adrenaline and the excitement, and the veneration of a one night stand was harmless and fleeting.

Unlike affection, sex wasn’t addictive, and it made her feel almost as good.

She learned what ‘carefree’ meant in that strange and hectic century, and it wasn’t half bad. But alcohol made her nightmares worse, Arthur wasn’t there to hold her and her flatmate was absolutely terrified by Morgana’s screams, so she struck a sharp line over that category of fun and religiously avoided any attempt at drugs. Besides, she really didn’t need to get so sloshed that her magic started doing things of its own. There were just so many times she could blame it on faulty technologies before the situation acquired a weird undertone.

She would never get back what she and Arthur used to have in America. They were different people now, and everything had changed while staying the same. In Boston, they had been who they could have been, had they never found out of Uther’s many betrayals, had she never listened to Morgause’s enchantments. But there, England, they were exactly the people they were always supposed to be: family, friends, and ultimately allies.

After aeons, they finally had a real chance.

Morgana came back again for Arthur’s diploma, and Lancelot and Arthur both sighed with relief when they saw her all in one piece, stiletto heels at her feet and a complicated hairdo to match with her stylish dress. She was herself again: Morgana of Tintagel, Morgana Pendragon and Morgana from Ashford, who had fond memories of Versailles, of Winchester and Boston, and who was never going to give her little brother the fright of his life again.

She didn’t cringe, she didn’t even stiffen or worry when Lancelot told her he had brought Leon. She actually smiled and asked to meet him, and when she saw the tall youth and recognised his ginger curls and the trimmed stubble on his face, she almost felt a faint taste of nostalgia.

Camelot didn’t seem so far anymore: it was her present, it was just outside her front-door.

“Seems like the first forgetter has made it home,” she said to him.

“Seems so, lady Morgana,” Leon nodded, deferential.

“What do you think of me, Leon?”

“I don’t have to think anything, my lady,” he answered flatly.

“I’m not your lady. And I killed people in front of your eyes and usurped the throne of your king, surely you have to think something.”

Leon tightened his lips, darkly brooding.

“Is it true you that tended to the soldiers during the War?”

“Until the day our post was bombed,” she confirmed.

“And you saved Arthur?”

“I saved his hand. Saving him required the end of the war.”

Leon hummed and offered his hand and a small, polite smile.

“Fine by me.”

Morgana didn’t cry, but she never loved Leon as much as she did in that moment.

It was good to be home.

They celebrated together, and Arthur’s parents laughed when they heard the young men cheering and toasting to the ‘king of Camelot’, thinking they were making fun of their son.

They went on all afternoon roaring ‘long live the king’ until Arthur got tired of it and ordered them to shut the fuck up, which had the sole effect of sending them laughing and chanting even louder.

There was a faint beeping in the back of Morgana’s head, because she, Arthur, Lancelot and also Leon were all rich children with ridiculously good career prospects ahead of them and that had never happened before, so something, just _something_ felt weird, but it was exciting-weird rather than scary-weird.

With Leon and Lancelot and their side, Morgana knew something was kindling under the cold ashes. They were all going to be together at last, like she had foretold before dying in her quaint, American home.

Still, that night it was only Morgana and Arthur sitting on the roof of his house, legs swinging dangerously two floors from the ground. It was a good thing Morgana had foregone drinking because one glass of wine was usually enough to make her tipsy.

Arthur told her his father was urging him to go to law school, so he could one day practice in the family law firm, and Morgana bit her tongue, although she definitely thought Arthur had huge issues regarding fathers and their expectations. It was a miracle the two of them hadn’t screwed up Ywain irreversibly, what with Arthur’s daddy issues and Morgana’s distrust of mothers. Surprisingly, they had actually been decent parents, to her recollections. Good parents.

She missed her son, and for the first time since the day she had remembered, she allowed herself to count the years.

She didn’t voice those thoughts either.

But then Arthur also told her what he really planned on doing, and she had to put her foot down on that because there was no way on earth Morgana was allowing her stupid little brother to join any armed force whatsoever and get himself killed. _Again_. If she wasn’t allowed to go first, then sure as Hell he wasn’t allowed to go so soon. There were wars, there were crimes, and Their English Majesties were very nice and pretty, but they weren’t worth Arthur’s life.

“I swear on the Triple Goddess, Arthur Pendragon, you do that and I will end you,” she snarled.

Morgana emphasised the last two words with a special breed of warning which actually sounded like a genuine threat.

She had never looked so scary, not even when she was a reckless sorceress waging war against Camelot, and Arthur was actually torn between awe and sheer terror.

He didn’t even try to argue. Law school it was then, and he would need to brush up his Latin. Ugh. She was so going to help him study.

“Deal,” Morgana said. “But we’re going to get a flat together. And you do the dishes.”

“I did it for all our marriage!”

“See? You are already well-practiced.”

Later, Morgana overheard her father calling his ex-wife on the phone to let the woman know their little girl was doing fine and that she didn’t need to worry.

Morgana went back to bed without disturbing Arthur’s sleep and she dreamed of Freya’s smile.

  

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

Their flat was awfully posh and expensive because Morgana had the last saying on everything, “ _I’ll have that kitchen, Pendragon, or you can learn to live off ramen for the next four years_.”

She didn’t like cooking all that much. She just truly loved fancy interiors.

Their present parents felt safer knowing their children had each other’s back again, so they were happy to pay for their rent, but they posed the condition that Morgana and Arthur should find a job to cover for the other expenses. They were rich, and that was fine, but they hadn’t reared their children to be spoiled brats.

Both did it without the smallest retort. Their parents prided themselves for raising such level-headed youths and Arthur and Morgana just laughed it off, because there was no way those poor souls could guess they already knew an awful lot about bills and overtimes.

Morgana and Arthur had someone to talk to when they came home with haunted eyes because “I think I saw him,” or “That barista reminded me so much of her,” and everything was going to work out fine.

Morgana found Gwen during her last year of university.

They were in the same literature class, one that Morgana was attending only for extra credits and because she had met the authors she was going to study, which was hysterical in her opinion.

For some time, she indulged herself in the faint hope that Gwen didn’t remember anything.

Goddess, how awkward it got when they were discussing T. H. White and the professor tried to open up a debate about the Arthurian legends. It ended up with Gwen and Morgana yelling things at each other that made little to no sense for the rest of their classmates.

Morgana wasn’t really good at subtlety, and Gwen could get extremely passionate when matters affected her personally. That much hadn’t changed. That much would never change.

Their professor not-so-politely invited them to leave the classroom and take their shouting contest out of the academic premises.

Morgana sent a quick text to Arthur, who caught them up immediately. He arrived panting, out of breath for running all his way from the classroom to the café where Morgana had downright dragged a very reluctant and still fuming Gwen.

He dropped his leather bag on the floor and slouched on the chair next to Morgana.

“A little forewarning next time,” he gasped.

“Be thankful I got her here. Our class was even farther and she’s been threatening me of death since the second we got out.”

Arthur made a pained face that sent Morgana chuckling.

She was going to enjoy that one.

Gwen frowned, eyeing disbelievingly at the two of them.

“So you really don’t… no, wait, just… _how_?”

Arthur grimaced.

“How much has Morgana told you?”

“Nothing,” Gwen answered, to which Morgana felt the urge to comment.

“She wasn’t exactly listening.”

“Oh, I’m sorry if I find it hard to trust the woman who killed my husband!” Gwen hissed loudly, earning some odd looks from the other patrons in the café.

Was it okay if Morgana found Gwen’s little outburst funny? Because she did. She totally did.

She shrugged.

“Had him killed, to be fair,” she corrected Gwen.

“And that is better how?”

“It’s not. It’s just more accurate.”

Arthur sighed, knitting his eyebrows. Morgana could sense his headache building, and she didn’t envy him in the slightest.

“Morgana, you’re not helping,” he rumbled.

She took a sip from her paper teacup and shrugged, promising him to keep her mouth shut and let him do the talking.

Arthur drank some of the coffee Morgana had already ordered for him and he sighed.

“It’s complicated. Or it’s not. It’s actually up to you, depending on how you want to take this. Listen…”

Morgana scoffed, “Try to be more excursive, will you?”

“How about you sum up purgatory and reincarnation and I get to butt in?” he snarled.

Gwen narrowed her eyes.

“I don’t even care who does the explaining. Just try to make sense, please.”

Arthur raked his hand through his hair, ruffling it irreparably. Morgana resisted the impulse to try to comb it back. Stupid low-key motherly instincts. She had experienced too many pregnancies in her lives, it had damaged her permanently.

“After Morgana and I died, we were taken to Avalon.”

“I thought Merlin didn’t manage it.”

“He didn’t. There was no way he could do it, Gaius had got it wrong. You can’t reach Avalon when you’re alive, it’s only meant for the dead. So I died, and I was there. And we…” Arthur sighed, scrabbling about for better words. “We worked it out. Our past, our mistakes. Avalon doesn’t heal your body, but it mends your soul.”

“And then it spits you out,” Morgana smirked ironically.

“And then it spits you out,” her brother agreed, hinting at a smile.

Gwen goggled disbelievingly.

“And this is it? Bygones be bygones as if nothing ever happened? You can’t really forgive a life of betrayal.”

“It was one life against many more. You understand this is another life, right? We’re not in Camelot anymore. Fuck, people think we’ve never really existed in the first place.”

Gwen looked pained.

“But we did,” she spoke under her breath.

Arthur bit his lips and he leaned forward to take her hands. He caressed Gwen’s palms with his thumbs, trying to converge all his reasons and his care in just one single touch and a handful of words.

“Yes, we did. But things have changed. Morgana and I, we’ve lived through some bad times, and she was always there for me. You can trust her.”

Gwen bit her lips and shook her head, looking almost disheartened.

“I don’t think I can do it so quickly,” she confessed.

Morgana held her tea a little more forcefully, finding comfort in the heat spreading from the paper cup.

“Take your time,” she told her. “I know I did a lot of awful things, especially to you. However, I’m not going anywhere, so a day, a year or ten are the same to me.”

“Do you really mean that?”

No. Morgana was definitely exaggerating. She would have never withstood more than a few months of Gwen’s harsh judgment. She knew that and Arthur knew it too, but he wasn’t going to expose her.

“I’ve had his back since God knows when. I’m here to stay.”

That much was true.

Arthur protested, “It was rather the other way around.”

“France, poison. War, hand,” Morgana reminded him cuttingly.

He scowled.

“You know what? Next time let me lose a limb, at least you’ll stop bugging me about it.”

“If a next time happens, brother, you’ll be lucky if I don’t kill you myself,” she retorted acridly.

Gwen sighed, her lips twisting in a strange curve of exasperation, incredulity and amazement.

“Well, this is something I didn’t know I had missed.”

Arthur glanced back at her, confused.

“This what?”

“The two of you, bantering like this. In Camelot, it all stopped so suddenly I’ve never really had the chance to realise it. It used to be normal, once. It was… part of our life.”

She sounded so befuddled, as if she couldn’t believe it herself. Morgana guessed that their coming and going, that tidal recurring of habits and quirks could be unsettling for someone like Gwen, who had reincarnated without ever remembering, and who now appeared to have only her recollections of Camelot.

Arthur smiled.

“Some things can’t change.”

Gwen hummed, and then she smirked slyly.

“Your hair is darker, though. Have you done it on purpose?”

Arthur grimaced.

“It looks all wrong, doesn’t it? It’s plain stupid.”

Morgana snickered and shared an amused glance with Gwen.

“He wants to dye it blonde. I’ve been talking him off for years now. This suits him so much better. And he would look ridiculous inside a hair salon.”

Arthur puffed, vexed by the unbalances of the world, “Why is it that women can dye their hair in rainbow colours and if men try something then we’re all sissies?”

“Well, rape culture is still a thing, so you’re not in the right place to complain about double standards.”

He cringed.

“God, this world is so fucked up.”

Gwen chuckled, and she smiled hopefully.

“But you’re here now. You can set things right.”

Morgana arched her eyebrows and intervened, “Please, don’t prompt him. He’s already been doing it for more than a thousand years.”

“Last time I didn’t do anything special,” Arthur said, instead of bragging.

“I beg to differ,” she whispered over her cup of tea.

Gwen stared at them, quizzical, but she tactfully avoided asking.

Morgana smiled secretly behind her cup and she shook her head, content.

She had missed Gwen’s polite empathy, her quick awareness. She couldn’t wait to tell Lance the news.

This time, she was setting things right.

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

They phoned Lancelot that same day. After some reasoning, they had decided it should be Arthur to do the calling, rather than Morgana. The knight and his king needed to clear things once and for all.

Therefore, when Lancelot took the first train to Cambridge that weekend, Morgana made herself scarce and let the love triangle sort it out. Memoryless Gwen had been kissing and holding hands with Lancelot for a ridiculous amount of lifetimes now, it was silly to keep hiding behind a finger.

Morgana came back to the flat only later in the evening because the air was chilly and she had forgotten to grab her jacket. She found her brother laughing, comfortable and relaxed, and Lance was looking at Gwen as though she were sun, moon and stars all encaged within a single person.

Morgana had never missed Boston as passionately.

The following month they returned Lancelot the favour, and Arthur, Gwen and Morgana booked a quick trip to London.

The journey progressed smoothly if a bit awkwardly now and then. It was undeniable that Gwen was having a hard time in reconciling her last memories of Morgana with the reborn girl who occupied the seat in front of her, and whose head had found Arthur’s shoulder naturally when she had fallen asleep. But Gwen was doing her best to swallow down the bile and keep her mind open, so Morgana was thankful for that. It had taken her decades to manage what Gwen was accomplishing in mere weeks. She mentally vowed to prove herself worthy of that leap of faith.

Morgana stretched her arms, yawning, and she smiled while she wondered if Freya were happy for her. She probably was. From time to time, Morgana got the feeling someone was watching her from afar. She had learned to distinguish the different inklings.

 _I’m doing fine, sister. I told you I would make you proud_ , she thought.

But she had miscalculated. Or rather, Leon had, and Lancelot totally knew that disaster was impending on their meeting because he was pacing and he was nervous, and nothing of that was about Gwen or Arthur.

When the group arrived in London, there weren’t only Lance and Leon waiting for them at the train station: Percival was there too, towering over the crowd like a giant in a town of common mortals.

Morgana’s first reaction was to step back behind Arthur’s shoulder, and while he didn’t notice, already greeting and waving enthusiastically towards his old friends, Gwen saw the tense line of Morgana’s neck and the quick, almost invisible clench of her fists.

“A day or a year, it doesn’t matter,” she reminded her encouragingly. “If you can prove it to me, then Perce won’t be a problem.”

Morgana nodded, but she couldn’t bring herself to believe in Gwen’s words. And she was right to do so: Gwen wasn’t one to hold grudges. On the other hand, Percival was.

The young man waited patiently for the entire weekend to catch the perfect instant to corner her, because that was the Percival Morgana had learned to fear in battle: not the impressively strong, tenacious knight, but the relentless hunter.

He blocked her down the stairs in the short moment while Gwen was still in her hotel room, getting ready for their night out, and Arthur and Lance were chatting outside with Leon.

Morgana had prepared herself for that moment.

“You don’t fool me, witch.”

She sneered, arching an arrogant eyebrow.

“Oh good, for a moment you had me thinking you were actually smarter than what you look.”

“You do something to Arthur or Gwen, and I will ruin your life for good,” he warned her menacingly.

She snorted, amused.

She should have answered sensibly, she should have pleaded her cause. She didn’t, because a small part of her was still a wild beast, and she growled and she barked when someone attempted to antagonise her.

“I took you down every single time you tried to face me, and perchance this has escaped you, but I’m a Queen of Avalon now. If you didn’t worry me then, what makes you think you can threaten me today?”

Percival snarled, and his entire face was screaming bloody murder.

“You’ve got something to lose.”

Morgana narrowed her eyes.

“You have no way of taking it from me.”

“I’ll find it. Don’t hope I’ll ever forgive you for what you did.”

“Are you talking generally or specifically? Either case, I don’t care,” she tittered maliciously.

“Gwaine!” he roared, and he shoved her against the lift.

Morgana blanched, barely registering her head bumping against the metal doors.

She clenched her jaw and licked her lips.

“Funny, I don’t think it’s up to you to forgive me that.”

Percival grunted, and his elbow was suddenly pressed painfully against her throat, choking the air out of her.

“He was my best friend, and you killed him. You have no idea–”

Morgana didn’t even care. There was ice in her stomach, and cold splinters grazing her veins. There were phantom memories whirling in front of her eyes, both oneiric and real. Both hers and not.

She closed her eyes and laughed, and she was bitter and she was wicked, and she hadn’t felt that empty since before Avalon, since one cold day after Camlann, with the ghost of Mordred’s lifeless weight against her breast and the deafening cries of a dying man in her ears, since her eyes had been filled with the ashen face of her wounded brother.

“I think I do. I had my hands straight into his soul, you know? That’s how I killed him.”

“You will pay for what you did,” he spat angrily and Morgana decided she’d had enough.

She waved her closed fist and her eyes glinted. Percival was forced to step back, an imperious force pushing him away despite his efforts to hold his stance.

“You really think I haven’t done it already? That I’m not still doing it?” she hissed.

“I don’t see you suffering as you should.”

Morgana scowled, baring her teeth as she spoke. It was good to feel her magic flowing from her skin again. The temptation to make claws of her fingers and strangle Percival was calling to her like the luring song of a siren. It would have been ridiculously easy.

Good thing she was nothing like the person Percival believed her to be. Not anymore.

She released him from the grasp of her powers, letting her magic dissolve into thin air.

“That’s because you haven’t been paying attention.”

“You–”

Morgana hushed him angrily, “I am at your king’s side now, I have been for centuries, and I will still be even after a thousand years pass. If you don’t trust me, at least trust Arthur.”

She shook her head and chuckled mirthlessly, “On second thought, you don’t even have to trust Arthur. Or Guinevere, or Lance. Go on and hate me. If there is one thing in the world I don’t need, it’s your approval.”

“Good, because I’ll die before I trust you.”

She chortled, and Percival should have been grateful to whichever god he worshipped that the Hemlock wasn’t a thing anymore and that Morgana was actively doing her best to keep it so, because her head was spinning and it was World War II all over again, with men screaming and the ghost of her guilt mauling her soul.

“Then I won’t weep for you.”

Her magic was sizzling.

She made a strangled moan and brought a hand to her chest.

Percival frowned, and his guarded grimace conveyed both his mistrust and his perplexity. He expected her to attack, to trick him, but Morgana felt cold fingers scratching down her spine and she recognised the symptoms of her mind playing against her.

She almost panicked. She couldn’t let Percival of all people see her like that.

Before the young man could say or do anything, Lance arrived, probably sent by Arthur to check what was taking his sister so long.

He glanced at the two of them and figured immediately what had just transpired. He ran to Morgana’s side and took her face in his hands, forcing her to look him in the eye.

“Look at me, Morgana. Look at me. Do I need to get Arthur?”

She swallowed and groaned.

“No.”

“Where are you?”

“Away,” she whispered weakly.

“Come back then. Don’t yield. You’re awake, it’s just a moment.”

“I’m awake,” she obediently repeated, breathless.

She heard quick footsteps approaching and then Gwen’s yelp.

“ _What the Hell is happening here?”_

“It’s alright,” Lancelot reassured her before staring back at Morgana. “Is it? Are you okay?”

Morgana breathed in slowly and nodded.

“It was just a moment.”

She didn’t know when or if Arthur had told Lancelot of her episodes. Probably at some point during their adolescence, Lance had simply figured out something still wasn’t right with her. She thanked him softly, using the touch of his hands to tether herself to the world.

“Don’t tell Arthur. Just… don’t let _him_ come near me.”

Lancelot nodded quickly and told Gwen she didn’t need to worry and suggested her to catch up with Arthur and Leon outside.

Gwen hesitated, still eyeing cautiously at the three of them, but she eventually walked away, high heels clicking, already concocting an excuse to buy Morgana some time to collect herself.

Lancelot turned to Percival, glaring.

“Be happy it was me and not Arthur because I might listen to you, but he won’t.”

“She’s already betrayed him more than once.”

“You don’t know the rest of the story, Perce. So do yourself a favour and try to be fair in your judgment before our king finds a reason to kill you.”

Morgana scoffed mentally: she had tortured Percival’s best friend to death, almost murdered his king and indirectly caused the end of the very man who was still cradling her in that moment.

It had all happened in a very distant past, but Percival’s hatred wasn’t completely unfair.

Morgana didn’t care, though. She was just tired.

Percival wavered.

“Mate…”

“Just fucking go,” Lancelot hushed him in an irate rebuke.

It was enough to make Percival worry and obey, because Lancelot never swore, he never lost his temper.

For the rest of the night, Percival kept his distance all right, but it didn’t suffice.

Morgana never smiled on her way back to Cambridge.

Arthur tried only twice to get her to talk, and she answered with snarls and hisses that visibly upset Gwen.

He gave up but he still regarded Morgana with disappointment.

“Later,” he subtly scolded her.

No. Not later. Not ever.

Back in her room, Morgana dreamed of Freya again, but it didn’t soothe her as much as she wished.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Katie McGrath was born in Ashford, so that’s why I picked up that city for my present Morgana.  
> In case you’re wondering, Arthur literally died of heartache in his previous life in Boston. Yes, it’s a real thing.  
> Anyway, this new life stretches forward into the future, roughly between a 2020 and 2030. Yeah, Arthur and his gang are even past the millennial generation. They would be teenagers right now, which calls for a lot of future pop-culture and nerdy references. Brace yourselves.  
> I had serious doubts about Percival's behaviour. While his anger made perfect sense to me, I was afraid it would feel a little bit strained for a reader. Luckily, I stumbled upon a deleted scene from season 5, and after Camlann Percival told Gwaine he wanted to kill Morgana. And that was before she killed his friend. It made my blood run cold but at least it cleared me of my doubts about Percival’s mistrust and anger.


	8. The Dragonlord

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Arthur is the worst closeted gay ever and his family issues are grander than his ego. I love him.  
> Morgana has a thing for puns. Arthur is a sucker for fantasy novels. I think you can easily catch all the _Game of Thrones/A Song of Ice and Fire_ references without my help.

By the time Arthur graduated, Morgana had already secured herself a job in London and had convinced Arthur’s parents to open a branch office of their law firm in the city, so that Arthur could follow her and make his folks deliriously proud at the same time.

All of them would finally be in the same place: Morgana, Arthur, Gwen, Percival, Leon and Lancelot.

Morgana and he picked a flat even fancier than their previous one, something with a guest room and an elegant office where Arthur could file all his documents. They lived in a building that boasted an honest-to-God old, liveried porter. Arthur thought it pretentious even for his standards, but this time he could afford to drive sport cars instead of fixing them only, so he guessed he could get used to it.

He was still doing the dishes and Morgana was still taking care of the laundry, and they subscribed the lease with both their names.

Then one day, Arthur took an early break from his office, a furious headache building up behind his eyes because of the most unnerving case he had ever had to pursue. He first cursed himself, and then his love for impossible challenges.

Morgana should have totally talked him off from taking the case, but apparently, she was more concerned with the state of his hair than with that of his mental peace. She had encouraged him and promised she would cook Italian for an entire week if he managed to win that suit.

Arthur had messed up priorities.

And so he met the living incarnation of his past completely at random while walking down the street: he was talking on the phone with Elyan, hardly minding his steps as Gwen’s brother kept ranting about how everybody from his internship was complete oddballs and apologising because he had no idea how to get transferred to London in the near future.

“Don’t worry about that. Just prove yourself useful and get them to sign you up for the job when this thing’s over.”

“It will take a fuckload of years before I can get to London.”

“Bullshit. I give you two years maximum and then… oi, watch your bloody–!”

Arthur looked up towards the person who had just bumped into him, almost making him drop his phone.

His heart stopped, and he hung up without even thinking, blow Elyan and his internship.

“ _Arthur_.”

Merlin froze on the spot.

He was exactly like Arthur remembered, gangly arms and ridiculous ears, but his hair was longer now and his five o’ clock shadow was growing into an unkempt stubble, surely due to a lackadaisical carelessness rather than an attempt at being fashionable.

It was Merlin.

Arthur thought his heart had come into his throat to strangle him, and yet he was able to whisper something.

With hindsight, his first words to Merlin were pretty lame and hardly sensible, but it could have gone definitely worse. He could have tried a joke. Thankfully, his brain hadn’t short-circuited so badly yet.

“Sorry I was late. I couldn’t leave her on her own,” he murmured.

The force of Merlin’s embrace robbed him of his breath, and Arthur panted, but it was alright. Things were finally, finally alright.

He held him back just as strongly until his arms were hurting and he could feel Merlin’s bones digging into him. He closed his eyes shut, unable to breathe, to think or to swallow the knot in his throat. He just hugged Merlin and let himself be hugged back.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry I couldn’t save you,” he heard him blubber against his ear.

Arthur released Merlin from his hold just slightly, allowing themselves only the little space they needed so that Arthur could stare at Merlin’s face.

“What are you talking about?”

“Camlann. I tried but– and then the trenches… I tried to stop the bombs but I missed that one. I missed it!” Merlin cried disconnectedly.

His face was pale and his eyes were dim. It felt like jumping back to another time, another era, and Arthur was dying again as though the slivers of Mordred’s sword were still digging narrow paths inside his chest.

Merlin had been watching over him.

All that time, while Arthur had tried so hard to never think about him, else he would have crumbled under the weight of his longing, of the yearning for his best friend, Merlin had been watching. Protecting him from behind the scenes, as he had always done.

It made Arthur’s heart swell, filled his mouth with a hot and intoxicating taste.

“Well, it seems like I can’t come out alive of a war without you,” Arthur commented, acting calm while his body was shaking furiously.

“Yeah,” Merlin agreed, and he smiled through the tears. “You’re useless without me.”

“You can’t speak to me like that. I was your king.”

“It’s the truth.”

Arthur snorted. He put his hand on Merlin’s shoulder, holding it as if his life depended on it.

He ignored the watery veil that was dimming his sight.

“Well, then there’s only one solution. Never leave my side again, idiot.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it, sire.”

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

Arthur hadn’t been complete without his Merlin. Morgana knew that so she was happy for him. She was happy for both of them.

It didn’t stop her from wishing that their little reencounter could have been postponed a bit longer.

Despite it being still afternoon, Morgana had lit all the candles in the living room, the white, the red and even the pink ones that her brother abhorred, because catching quick glimpses of the burning flames calmed her down.

At least Arthur had shown enough sense to decide it was best for Morgana and Merlin to meet in the privacy of their home before chucking her in a public situation with the man who had killed her.

She jumped when she heard the noise of the key turning in the lock but still walked to the door to meet her little brother. And his warlock.

Arthur was wearing his grey suit, tie loosened just a bit, and by the wrinkle crossing his forehead, Morgana could tell he was still working out legal issues in his mind. That case was truly driving him mad.

Dangling beside him, Merlin was grinning, hands in the pockets of his skinny jeans and elbows showing from the rolled up sleeves of a shoddy hoodie.

He smiled cheerfully at her.

“Hello, Bellatrix.”

Morgana arched her eyebrow, unimpressed. Of course the warlock was a nerd, just like his idiotic king.

“Rasputin,” she greeted him flatly.

Merlin grimaced, aggrieved.

“Come on, that was mean. Mine was funny.”

“Not really. I hate Slytherins.”

He looked surprised.

“Oh. I thought you would like them.”

“The magical Nazis? I’m a little against people killing others for the way they were born, if you remember.”

“Right. You’re a Ravenclaw then?”         

“Wit beyond measure is man’s greatest treasure,” she dutifully recited, unable to choke down a titter.

Merlin grinned maliciously and clicked his tongue.

“You think there’s a pun in there too, right?”

“I know my Shakespeare. Actually, I’ve known him, period.”

Arthur scoffed.

“If you’re done being nerds, I’d like to put down this bag,” he pointed meaningfully to his leather suitcase, “and have my coffee. Thanks.”

Morgana snorted.

“Kettle.”

“Black.”

Merlin laughed and followed Arthur inside the flat, closing the door behind his back. Her brother disappeared into his office, dying to abandon whatever file was weighing his suitcase down and more than ready to discard his ritzy jacket and patent shoes. Morgana took a deep breath and waved her hands, gesturing towards the living room.

“Go take a seat, I’ll bring coffee in a minute.”

Merlin hawed uncomfortably, “I’m not really a coffee person.”

“Tea then. I’ve got some new selections from Fortnum&Mason, if you like.”

Merlin scratched his head and grimaced.

“When do I get the chance to say I’m sorry? For, you know…”

“Running me through with a sword? After tea.”

“I’m not especially sorry about the sword. You were going to kill Arthur.”

She tilted her head condescendingly.

“I guess I was.”

“But I am sorry about all the rest. About messing up. Maybe if I had just told you from the beginning…”

Morgana tutted and walked into the living room, certain that Merlin would follow her. He did.

“We will never know. So unless you have a way to go back in time and fix it, let’s not talk about it.”

“Are you sure you’re okay with that?”

She moved a chair for Merlin to sit in. He noticed the candles and frowned, sniffing the different variety of scents.

“I had my time,” Morgana said. “Arthur found a way to forgive me, and after that, it was easier to see why you did what you did. I won’t say I would have done the same in your place, but we all have a tendency of making mistakes when we think on our feet.”

Merlin hummed, “I thought you had sided with Morgause.”

“I had. But I didn’t know she had used me as a fulcrum for her spell. I believed you had poisoned me for being her ally.”

Merlin shook his head.

“I only knew that Arthur was in danger, and that you and Morgause had put him in that situation.”

“I would have never harmed Arthur, not at the time. I just wanted to depose Uther, no matter the consequences,” she explained. She felt the need to clarify at least that.

She wouldn’t have turned against Arthur. At the beginning, Morgana had genuinely believed killing Uther would have benefitted everyone, Arthur included. In her opinion, he would have been a much better king than his father. Until she had thought he wouldn’t.

“And yet the first thing you did when the people fell asleep, was going to his rooms to protect him,” Merlin pointed out.

“As I said: thinking on my feet. Apparently, Pendragons are tragically bad at it.”

Merlin sighed and an uncomfortable silence descended upon them.

Morgana was not going to say she was sorry for attempting at Uther’s life, not in front of Merlin. His hands might not have been perfectly clean themselves – Nimueh, Agravaine, _Morgana_ – but the level of twistedness of Morgana’s inner reasoning was impossible to comprehend for someone who hadn’t walked in her same shoes, who couldn’t understand how tight her skin had felt sometimes. She had a family to understand her and to condone her sins, Merlin only needed to see that she didn’t pose a threat anymore.

She cleared her throat.

“So, tea. White, green, or black?”

Merlin startled.

“Uhm… green?”

Morgana snorted.

“Figures. Yoga tea for the good warlock.”

She went to the kitchen to retrieve her selection of green teas and fetched cups and a teapot for the two of them. She filled a mug of coffee for Arthur and sugared it with half a teaspoon of honey.

It could have gone way worse, she reflected. Morgana flat out refused to have an open-hearted confrontation with Merlin, she had already suffered through lifetimes of those with Arthur, and that sufficed. She was never going to forget, but she had learned to forgive.

Apparently, Merlin had figured out how to do the same. Arthur had already hinted that he had been watching over him all those years, so the most-powerful-sorcerer-of-all-times had surely realised things had changed with Morgana.

She could work with that. But she was going to snap his neck if he called her a Slytherin again.

She licked a drop of honey from her finger, and when she got back from the kitchen Arthur was already sitting in front of Merlin, tie nowhere to be seen, the first three buttons of his shirt undone and sleeves rolled up his elbows.

He was going to iron that mess himself.

Merlin was chuckling awkwardly, “My last flatmate kicked me out, so I have a place of my own now. He said I was driving him nutter.”

Arthur scoffed sceptically, “I’ve been married to Morgana, you can’t be worse than that.”

Morgana cringed. She threw Arthur a withering look and let the tray with the cups drop on the table in an irritated gesture.

“I thought we agreed to never talk about it ever again.”

“You keep making wife jokes!”

“Not in public,” she hissed.

“It’s not public, it’s Merlin,” he bit back.

The young man hummed and took a cup for himself, probably fearing Morgana would be withholding her tea favours soon.

“I don’t know if I should feel insulted or honoured by that.”

“Shut up before I strike you with a lightning,” she threatened him.

Merlin grimaced and looked around. He took notice of the candle flames acquiring an odd hue of green.

“I don’t think this flat is a safe space to try lightning.”

“Don’t tempt her,” Arthur warned him.

Morgana too noticed the candles. It made her still for a moment, and she sobered up. That was exactly why she had lit them in the first place.

She sighed and picked a random tea bag, pouring hot water directly into her cup.

Merlin had arrived. Things were going to change. Again.

“I’m not ruining our flat only to electrocute your magical boyfriend, don’t worry,” she commented almost nonchalantly.

The scandalised look on Arthur’s face was what made everything worth it. She arched a victorious eyebrow and smirked.

Chicken.

“He’s not my boyfriend!” Arthur cried out.

She smiled affectedly.

“Arthur, I’m wounded. I thought you would invite me to your wedding,” she glossed.

Merlin coughed and forced a smile.

“If Arthur and I are married, then I should probably tell my boyfriend we’re not meeting tomorrow.”

Morgana almost dropped her cup.

“Excuse me? Do you really have a boyfriend? A honest-to-God boyfriend that you date and do whatever you do with boyfriends?”

She tried to avoid any eye contact with Arthur, but it was pretty hard to miss the stiffening of her brother’s shoulders.

Morgana wasn’t sure if that was because Merlin was seeing someone, or because said someone was a man. It was probably a bit of both.

Well, at least one of them knew how to call things with their name. It was already something.

“Why are you so surprised? I’m a very likable person,” Merlin asked petulantly.

Morgana sipped her tea and arched her eyebrows.

“Sure. When you are not poisoning, lying and killing.”

Merlin grimaced.

“That was uncalled for. But I did say I want to apologise, so here it is: I’m sorry. I screwed up big time.”

Morgana made a noise in the back of her throat. Arthur was still blushing at her side.

She put down her cup and held out her hand for Merlin to take it. He grabbed it cautiously.

“I screwed up too. So I guess we’re even now.”

“We should have done this centuries ago,” Merlin said, and Morgana smiled.

“You were busy with your sanctuaries and your dragons.”

Arthur coughed, choking on his coffee.

“Wait, dragons? Plural?”

Merlin’s smile waned.

“Yes, well… that’s not going to be my charge anymore. They’re all gone now.”

Morgana froze. She stared at Merlin, barely blinking.

“All of them? Even–”

He nodded gloomily, “Yes. She didn’t make it past the sixteenth century. I’m sorry, Morgana.”

“Are you talking about Aithusa?” Arthur asked, discreetly reaching for Morgana under the table. He put his hand on her leg and she shivered, comforted by his small touch.

At some point during their reincarnations, Morgana had told Arthur about her dragon, about how much she missed her. She had always supposed Merlin had found a place for Aithusa like he had done for all the magic wielders and creatures.

She gasped noiselessly. Her voice quivered, lowering to a whisper.

“It’s alright. I guess I just hoped she was still alive, that she was somewhere out there. It was stupid.”

Merlin winced.

“She was very sick. She had already lived longer than what we expected. She was way older than Kilgarrah when she…”

He could not bring himself to finish his sentence, and Morgana thanked the Goddess for his hesitation. She didn’t want to hear him saying it out loud.

“She was strong,” Morgana murmured. “She was a fighter.”

“But you said dragons,” Arthur intervened. “Were there others?”

Merlin hummed and Morgana saw the pain in his eyes as he spoke.

“Yes. Kilgarrah was the oldest of them, he helped me many times when I was in your service. We were friends. And I found others around the world, but they were weak and almost harmless. Dragon magic is too ancient, so when the old Queens of Avalon entrusted the Crowns to their successors, that spark withered.”

Morgana paled.

“So it’s my fault? If Vivienne and Ygraine were still–”

“No, no!” Merlin stopped her immediately, flapping his hands in the air. “Not you. The old Queens: Mebd, Macha, and Nemain. They created dragons, so when they stepped down, dragons weakened. Uther would have never been able to beat them otherwise, especially not while Dragonlords still existed.”

“Oh.”

Arthur made a half grimace.

“Well, good to know it wasn’t us who screwed up that one.”

Merlin smiled pitifully.

“Yeah. Apparently, there’s an exception to every rule.”

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

It was freezing cold, and there was ice on the pavement, so Morgana had to hold Arthur’s arm to avoid tripping on her high heels, but she was happy. It was December, there were Christmas lights on every window and her father was coming to visit next Thursday. She was happy.

She laughed at Arthur’s last rumble.

“You are just bitter Elizabeth wasn’t your daughter!”

“I’m just bitter all the kings I’ve known can’t keep it in their pants,” he snapped.

She heard the implied ‘our father included’ and she laughed louder. It was nice when Arthur had hard opinions on Uther. Really, happiness could be found in small things.

“Most men I’ve known can’t keep in their pants,” Morgana sniggered. “Well, except you.”

Arthur pursed his lips.

“Why do I feel this isn’t a compliment?”

Morgana shrugged, not even trying to hide her grin.

“Well, she kept saying she was still intact.”

“You know that’s not true! She was like a bloody Margaery Tyrell,” Arthur bristled.

Morgana smacked him on the shoulder, in a dangerous gesture that nearly sent her flying over a slab of ice.

“Stop quoting those books, you nerd. Or go back to Tolkien at least.”

“That’s even nerdier.”

“But better written. Better filmed too.”

“So you agree Tolkien was good.”

“I never said he wasn’t. Oh, scented candles!” she chirped with a huge smile on her face.

Morgana pulled Arthur towards the pastel-coloured window of a herbalist, but he stayed put, dragging her back.

“Hell no. Our flat already smells of vanilla. It’s terrible. No more candles.”

“It’s cinnamon, and it’s not terrible. You are terrible. I’m going in.”

She jumped inside the shop with a giggle, leaving him to pace and sink his hands into the pockets of his coat to fight off the cold. She remerged fifteen minutes later with a heavy paper bag hanging from her arm, wallet still clutched in her hand.

Arthur sighed dejectedly and hid his mouth behind his woollen scarf, wishing hard for the warmth of a pub or a Costa. He was badly in need of coffee.

“I hate you.”

“Shush, you can have the lily candles.”

“Morgana!” he cried out with an edge of threatening exasperation which sent her cackling.

“About that, have you heard the news?” she gloated.

“No. I don’t care for your news. My nose is freezing and my scarf smells like your blasted cigarettes. I just hate you.”

Morgana laughed and hung her arm firmly around Arthur’s elbow, nudging him forward.

“Put the scarf near the candles so it will smell like cinnamon, then. By the way, Merlin broke up with his boyfriend. The poor thing went to cry on Gwen’s shoulder, but he found Lancelot instead.”

“Lancelot told you that?”

“He’s not only your best friend, you know.”

“I thought you and I were friends.”

Morgana scoffed and waved her gloved hand, “You’re my brother, it’s different. You don’t gossip with me.”

“And Lancelot does?”

Arthur sounded sceptical, not without a reason. Morgana rummaged through her purse and grabbed her cigarettes. She lit one only to tease Arthur, who totally despised her little vice.

“Ish. He can’t hold his liquor very well,” she revealed.

“You got Lancelot drinking?”

“I was bored. And he’s miserable when Gwen has to travel out of the country.”

Arthur was about to say something when he stopped dead in his tracks. Morgana didn’t stumble only because she was holding too tight onto him.

She glanced at her brother and saw he was mortally pale. He was staring at the crowd of faces flowing in front of them, eyes fixed among the people shopping for Christmas presents and cheesy decorations.

“Arthur, what’s up?

He stuttered, a deep wrinkle running between his eyebrows.

“I– I think I saw Isolde,” he muttered.

Morgana frowned, juggling the name out of her memories. She knitted her eyebrows.

“The bandit woman?”

“Yes.”

“Do you want to try and talk to her?”

Arthur shook his head and took a deep breath. Morgana could only guess what was going on in his head, but Arthur confirmed her suspicions as soon as he shrugged and held her hand, urging Morgana to start moving.

“No. No, she’s already given too much for us. Let her live peacefully.”

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

Morgana had foregone her no alcohol policy that night.

They were celebrating Elyan’s impressive achievements at work. That, and his upcoming transfer to London.

Fucking finally.

Morgana liked Elyan. He was a sweet, simple boy, as headstrong as his sister, and with a great sense of duty. And he blindly trusted Arthur and Gwen, which meant he wasn’t confrontational towards Morgana in the least because his sister had faith in her and Arthur would put his life in Morgana’s hands without even blinking.

It was nice when people showed confidence. It made things easier.

Percival, on the other hand, was a man who believed only in what he saw, so his relationship with Morgana was strained to put it gently. They had reached a semblance of civility, but that was all. He had made up an excuse to avoid coming that night once he had found out they were having Elyan’s party at Arthur and Morgana’s place. She wasn’t going to pretend to be sad about it.

There were a lot of empty wine bottles scattered around them, Leon was slouching drunkenly against the couch, uncharacteristically dishevelled, and Gwen was sitting on Lancelot’s lap at Morgana’s side.

Morgana made cooing noises at her friends, which sent Merlin chuckling hysterically on the floor. Elyan pouted, and Arthur leaned more comfortably in his favourite armchair, sending her quick, annoyed glances.

Whatever. She was drunk, and it was weird and it was fun. She hadn’t touched an inch of alcohol since she was nineteen, and she had missed that sense of inebriated breeziness.

Lancelot shook his head, embarrassed, and proposed a toast, mostly to shift Morgana’s focus towards someone else.

“To Elyan! It was high time that you caught up with the knights!”

Elyan laughed and Merlin grabbed a bottle to fill everyone’s glasses, playing the host since the actual owners of the flat were too sloshed to move.

“To Elyan! Long live Camelot!” they roared.

It always ended up like that: praising Camelot, as if they were all still wearing armours and tiaras, and eras hadn’t passed. Under some aspects, it was definitely true, and it gave Morgana an odd sense of home. After all, she had longed for a place in Camelot herself.

Arthur cheered for Elyan, but he didn’t join their hoorays for Camelot. He was in his sad type of drunkenness, the rare one that sent him spiralling down in a whirl of bittersweet memories and book quotations, instead of making him all boisterous and loud.

She knew he missed being a simple nobody. Somewhere in his head, words were colliding, forming something along the lines of ‘Gods be good, why would any man ever want to be king’, because Arthur was a low-key nerd even when he was drunk and mulling over past choices and chances.

She scrunched up her napkin and threw it in his face.

“Oi!”

Arthur caught the ball and tossed it back at her, missing shamefully. He hit Lancelot instead, who didn’t stop the napkin missile because he was busy brushing Gwen’s hips.

“Dolt,” Morgana smirked.

There. Distraction, mission accomplished.

Leon laughed.

“You’re awful when you’re drunk, Arthur.”

“Shut up, you’re in no better shape,” Arthur shushed him.

Leon grabbed the first thing he found, ready to hurl it and prove his point, and Morgana shrieked. Thankfully, Merlin jumped up from the floor and saved the remote before Leon could take aim.

“Break something and I break you, Leon. I don’t care how many people are going to miss you,” she hissed.

“The king hath challenged me! Methinks the lady shall pardon my felony,” he blabbered humorously, sending Elyan yowling. He slammed his fists against the armchair.

“Please, you must drink more often! You are never this good!”

Merlin chortled.

“He was never this drunk. I think Morgana spiked the wine.”

“I’m insulted! You don’t spike wine. Wine must be savoured,” she protested.

Arthur quirked his eyebrows.

“We almost had a full bottle each. That’s not savouring, that’s getting sloshed because Gwen’s baby brother is coming to London.”

Elyan waved his fist in the air, “Yes, I am!”

“We are savouring in huge quantities, okay?”

Arthur snorted.

Okay.

Lancelot smiled and held Gwen a little closer.

“It’s strange being like this again, though. We have never made it all together and no one ever remembered past lives before,” he mused. “Do you think something’s up?”

Morgana glared at her friend.

“Wow, Lance. That’s a mood killer.”

Elyan fretted, “No, no, wait. I’m curious too! This reincarnation thing is weird, and you are the queen of weird. What happens next?”

Morgana gulped down the rest of her wine.

“Queen of weird, Elyan?”

“You know what I mean. You know things.”

Yes, she drunk and she knew things.

Oh dear, Arthur had infected her.

She rolled her eyes and she sighed.

“We keep returning. Dying and being reborn and finding each other, as long as this world needs us,” Morgana looked pointedly at her brother, who in their present life was supposedly only her ex-neighbour, present best friend and flatmate, but who would forever be her little brother, no matter what. “As long as this world needs him, and he needs us. Most of the time we won’t notice, we’ll do things that trigger a change which turns the world for the better, or prevents it from going worse. It has already happened more than once.”

Gwen sipped her wine, pensive.

“And once the world is done with us?”

“Then it’s Avalon. For all of us.”

Arthur scowled, disappointed, and Morgana laughed.

“A different Avalon, little brother, don’t worry. You’ll see it when we all get back.”

Merlin frowned and rested his back on Leon’s couch.

“Yeah, I doubt that.”

Morgana sneered, and if the hiccup the alcohol gave her made her sound less intimidating and more comical, Merlin didn’t let his smug grin show too much.

“You’re not the seer here, _Emrys_. And if I say one day the world won’t need you anymore, then I’m right.”

She put down her empty glass and looked at the warlock, “Besides, you should be grateful. You’ll have plenty of time to shag my brother when we’re back in Avalon.”

“ _Morgana!_ ” Arthur yelled, outraged, his face reaching numerous hues of red in very little time, and Merlin’s smile froze on his face.

Gwen snorted, hiding her face against Lance’s shoulder, and Leon paled a little.

Elyan pointed his finger at Morgana and glared reproachfully.

“Gross.”

“Still true.”

Arthur shouted, “It’s not true!”

“Come on, Arthur, get out of that closet. It’s not like any of us cares,” she said with her best no-nonsense attitude.

She realised then that she shouldn’t have drunk so much.

“I'm not in a closet.”

Elyan coughed something that sounded suspiciously like “ _A wardrobe then?_ ” and Morgana scoffed.

Drunk too much, drunk too much. Drunk. Too. Much.

“Do I need to ask for the opinion of your first wife? Because I can ask for the opinion of your first wife. She’s sitting right here next to me, and we know she hasn’t been marrying you for quite some time now.”

Gwen raised her hands.

“Don’t bring me into this. If Arthur isn’t comfortable talking about–”

“There’s nothing I need to be comfortable about,” Arthur growled, cold and visibly furious.

He got up and left the room in a fit of rage, slamming the door behind his back, causing everyone to gasp or grimace.

“And there he goes again.”

Morgana sighed and looked wistfully at her empty glass.

It was getting fairly hard to ignore how silent Merlin had fallen.

Gwen quirked an eyebrow, quizzically. Morgana shrugged. Her head was spinning.

“We’ve been having this conversation for some time now,” she said. “Or rather, I have tried to have this conversation. Arthur just blatantly ignores me. I’m sorry, Elyan, I soured the night for everyone, we should be celebrating you.”

Elyan shrugged.

“Nah, it’s alright. He’ll cool down at some point.”

Lancelot made a face.

“You’ve been pushing too much, Morgana.”

“He’s just so stupid,” she spat venomously.

Merlin sounded melancholic, if not even bitter when he sighed and finally spoke up.

“Why are you doing this?”

Morgana listened very carefully, ready to catch any sign of mistrust in his voice. Even if a little confounded by the amount of wine she had drunk, she was certain there was none, not even a trace of irritation.

It may have moved her, just a tiny bit.

“Because Arthur is everything to me, and we’ve been antagonising each other into spitting out our feelings since forever. You two would have been the worst kept secret in Camelot, had you ever allowed yourselves a chance, and it’s very stupid to pretend otherwise.”

“It was a different time, Morgana. This thing is still difficult now, what would have happened back then?”

“You’re not denying, though.”

Merlin looked up to all his friends.

“Would any of you believe me if I did?”

Leon and Elyan answered with one voice, “Hell, no.”

Gwen, wonderful, awesome Gwen, laughed tenderly.

“Not a chance. I was married to Arthur, after all.”

“Go after him,” Morgana told him. “If you hurry you may still catch him. He’s probably sulking and kicking lampposts, anyway.”

Merlin glanced at her and found her smiling. Even Lancelot nodded encouragingly at her side.

He got up and ran, forgetting to close the door.

Morgana snorted and stood up. Her knees were all wobbly but she wasn’t going to trip gracelessly in front of her closest friends.

She made a beeline to the kitchen.

“So, who’s up for another round of drinks?”

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

In fact, Arthur wasn’t kicking lampposts, but he was sulking, unsurprisingly, his back against the wall and one hand in the pocket of his jeans. What actually looked out of place, were the cigarette he was holding between his fingers and the mint-scented cloud of smoke near his lips.

Merlin frowned.

“Since when do you smoke?"

Arthur closed his eyes and inhaled.

“I don’t, I just hide Morgana’s cigarettes when she pisses me off and I found this packet in my jeans. I can’t even remember when I took it.”

“You’re a prat.”

Arthur shrugged.

“Oh good, a prat who plays the indifferent. Awesome.”

Arthur took a drag from the cigarette, but it was too deep and it sent him coughing.

Merlin shook his head, “Twat.”

Arthur grimaced. His eyes were burning because of the smoke and his nose itched. He couldn’t understand how Morgana liked that rubbish. He threw the butt away and tramped it under the heel of his foot.

“Are you done with the eulogy?”

“Are you done with being a rude fool?”

Arthur sighed. He wondered if upstairs everyone was thinking he was homophobic scum.

He wasn’t. He really, really wasn’t.

He knew people didn’t get to choose who they loved. Hell, he had met his mother: Ygraine was the closest thing to an angel the universe had ever created, and yet she was hopelessly in love with Uther, a man who had ordered genocide.

Pendragons never got to choose who they loved. They just fell, and they fell hard.

“It wasn’t about you, Merlin. It’s just…”

“I know, don’t worry,” Merlin said, although it was clear it pained him.

“No, you don’t. You can’t know because I don’t know it myself. It’s… do I make any sense?”

“Not really. But that’s not half a surprise.”

Arthur scoffed and his fingers itched for another cigarette. Uh.

He was getting how Morgana had given in to smoking.

He bumped his head against the wall, repeatedly, until Merlin slapped himself on his face, exasperated.

“Arthur, what is the problem?”

“I don’t know.”

“Yeah, right,” Merlin snapped.

“I’m not like you, okay?” Arthur exclaimed. “For me it’s not easy being different. Being… not what people expect me to be. What do I tell my parents, uh? They’re just normal people, nice people. They want a son who’ll take over their office, who’ll get married and give them grandchildren. But I’m not that. I have seen more things than what my whole family will ever see, I’ve died and I’ve come back, and I’m just fed up with everything that is happening!”

He tried to stop himself from blurting out more, but his head was reeling and words were just jumping out of his mouth as if they had been there for ages, waiting to be uttered.

He was breathless. He kept talking. Yelling.

“I’m tired of all these blockheads playing with power as if it didn’t cause death and misery, and if I have to marry another pretty face to have children who’ll die before they’re five, I will fucking scream. I’ll scream, Merlin! How do I tell them that? How do I tell my parents that I’m king Arthur and that my idea of a family is Morgana safe in her home and you with me and fuck everything else?”

Merlin stopped breathing.

“Arthur–”

He didn’t listen. His eyes were burning with unshed tears, and for the first time since he had come back from Avalon, Arthur felt truly, utterly lost.

“Fuck, Merlin. How do I do this?”

He sniffled and he looked up to the dark sky, fighting his tears. He pretended he could see the stars high above despite the pollution and the fog in his eyes. He counted them.

One. Two. Three.

Four.

Five.

He was crying.

Merlin’s voice came in a tranquil whisper that had the sole effect of riling him up even more.

“Together. We’ll do this together, just like old times.”

“It’s not the old times, Merlin. We can’t fix it that way. I can’t take over an army, we can’t use magic, I don’t know what to do!”

“Then we’ll find another way!” Merlin cried out and shook him by the shoulders.

Arthur wove his hand through his hair and stared down. He felt the warmth of Merlin’s arms circling him, and for a moment he let himself be comforted by his familiar presence.

Their foreheads touched and Merlin sighed something, Arthur’s name probably. But it was soft and short-lived, because suddenly Arthur’s lips were on Merlin’s mouth, his hands holding the warlock’s face, brushing away the chilly night air from his skin with hot fingers, and Merlin was forgetting he ought to breathe again.

Fuck everything. Just he and Merlin. He and Merlin, and nothing else.

Arthur panted, and he moaned when Merlin shoved him against the wall, pressing himself against Arthur’s body. Merlin’s hands were on his neck, in his hair, pulling him closer, and their hips ground and, _fuck_ – Arthur couldn’t breathe, he just sucked the air from Merlin’s mouth and hoped he could die like that.

Merlin’s skin was smooth, but his stupid stubble was grazing his cheeks. Arthur bit and sucked Merlin’s lips, eliciting a groan from him, and then they were struggling with tongues and hands, and Arthur had never known burning could feel so good.

They kissed for seconds, minutes, before they parted, both breathless and trembling, just on the right side of intoxicated.

Arthur sighed, eyes closed, and Merlin let out a shaky laugh.

“You know, we can tell this to your parents. Maybe leaving out the part where you’re a legendary king and I’m a warlock, or they might think we’re nutters.”

“Might?”

“I was giving them the benefit of the doubt.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fun fact: in Shakespearean English, “wit” was a euphemism for penis and “nothing” was a euphemism for vagina, which makes the title _Much Ado About Nothing_ waaay more hilarious.  
>  I believe I must add that I don’t have any prejudice against Slytherins. But seriously, Death Eaters are the magic Nazis and most of them are Slytherins. Talk to JKR, I don’t make the rules (else, Sirius Black would still be alive)  
> Also, that brief conversation the Pendragons are having when Arthur sees Isolde? Go and check a few things about Henry VIII’s brother. Yes, I have a very dark sense of humour.


	9. The Round Table

Morgana told Merlin for the umpteenth time that she wasn’t angry at him for messing up with the washing machine, but she wouldn’t oppose him if he offered to buy her a new blouse. It had been her favourite one after all, and even Merlin’s puppy eyes had their limits.

Plus, the technology magical wonder was earning an awful lot, so Merlin could totally afford to buy her designer silk clothes.

She laughed at Merlin’s contrite grimace and she checked the time on her mobile. Percival was running late, which was worrying. The young lieutenant was generally perfectly punctual, military scrupulousness engrained in every aspect of his life. She wondered if everything was fine.

She glimpsed towards the door out of instinct, something crawling jeeringly right under her skin. And then, what Morgana had been fearing for a handful of aeons plus twenty-six years, happened.

She should have already known the moment Percival walked through the door of the pub, the smug smile spreading on his face so unlike him, eerily unfamiliar. He glanced at her and he was calculating her, waiting for an explosion. He was gloating.

When Morgana caught sight of the shorter man behind him, she felt herself fainting and her blood congealed.

Merlin was sitting beside her and when he sensed her sudden stiffening, he looked towards the door.

He gaped, jaw-slacked, before finding his voice.

“ _Gwaine!_ ” he exclaimed excitedly, standing as if he wanted to jump over the table and reach his friend. Morgana wouldn’t put it past him.

Gwaine bawled jovially, opening his arms and waving.

“Merlin!”

Everyone’s heads turned but Leon was the fastest to rise up and rush to Gwaine’s side, immediately followed by Elyan and Merlin. Morgana tried to ignore Arthur’s concerned glance and simply gestured him to go meet his friend.

Only Lancelot stayed where he was, eyeing Morgana apprehensively.

“You can go, you know.”

Lancelot smiled gently.

“I’ve never liked him that much, anyway.”

“Yes, and now you’ll tell me you didn’t care for Gwen.”

“I was never secretly in love with Gwaine, I can assure you.”

Morgana offered him a small, hesitant smile and glanced at the emotive commotion happening a few steps away from their table.

Leon gazed at Gwaine with mute amazement before holding him tightly and the man huffed, breathless.

“Oi, mate. You’re choking me here!”

Leon laughed and let him go, a broad grin lit up with joy.

“I’ve missed you.”

“Me too, Goldilocks.”

Elyan whistled and pulled Gwaine’s arm.

“Show some respect, man! You’re talking with the youngest councillor of the capital.”

Gwaine held the young man, pinching his cheek teasingly.

“So I’ve heard, and Perce tells me you’re not doing so bad yourself. You’ve all been up to a great deal without me.”

Merlin looked shell-shocked.

“What… where?” he stuttered dumbly.

Gwaine shrugged, carefree. His lips curved upwards in a boyish smile.

“Ah, you know Perce. He finds strays along the road and he brings them home.”

Morgana clenched her fists. Percival was grinning as he passed a patronizing arm over Gwaine’s shoulder.

“We came across during my last mission. The man’s working for the NCA now.”

“Oh, come on!”

“Nah, it’s true. I even have a badge somewhere,” Gwaine confirmed.

Elyan didn’t trust him.

“Show it,” he dared him.

Gwaine grimaced sheepishly.

“Not sure where I put it.”

“You can’t lose your work badge!”

Gwaine shrugged again, “On the bright side, I don’t usually lose the gun.”

Arthur walked past the crowd and stood in front of him, hands on his hips.

“Gwaine is allowed to carry a gun. No wonder this world is falling to pieces.”

Gwaine howled happily, and jumped on Arthur, hugging him tightly, “Princess! Long time no see. You’ve put up some weight!”

Arthur stiffened.

“I’m not fat.”

“No, you’re right. You’re just soft around the edges.”

Gwen urged them all forward, “Come on, boys, to your seats. Chat’s better with beer and we’re blocking the door.”

Morgana breathed in deeply, agitated, and Lancelot squeezed her hand briefly.

She watched Gwaine’s face brimming with mirth as he fell on his knees and declaimed his love for his queen, addressing Gwen as a beacon of grace in a night of misery.

He surely hadn’t lost his flair for dramatics.

Morgana was almost ready when her friends went back to sit at the table and she finally met Gwaine’s eyes. Almost.

She could have never foreseen the heavy onrush of emotions that hit her when he came close. She saw everything: the shadow of a beard on his clean cheeks, the slim wrinkle in his forehead as he laughed blaringly, the sharp angle of his nose.

She put on her bravest mask and hoped for the best.

Gwaine flashed her an arrogant smirk and moved a strand of hair away from his face.

“Lady Morgana,” he said.

She tilted her head, smiling back as forcedly as him.

“Sir Gwaine. How’s my sister?”

“My sister,” he corrected her.

“Our sister,” she argued pointedly.

Gwaine barked a laugh, admitting a temporary defeat.

“Just fine. She kicked me out.”

“She was probably tired of your smart mouth.”

“It certainly felt like that,” he agreed.

He showed some diplomacy or maybe a pinch of self-preservation, because he sat as far from her as possible, finding a place between Arthur and Leon.

The knights started flooding him with questions and Percival kept glancing subtly at Morgana.

She didn’t care for Percival’s inspection but she couldn’t tear her eyes away from Gwaine: he gesticulated a lot, he was loud, and his face shifted from grins to pouts to scowls with dizzying rapidity. There were dark circles under his eyes and she spotted a red, thin scar dripping down his neck when he leaned towards Elyan to high-five him.

Morgana wouldn’t say it was like staring at a ghost. Thanks to him – because of him – she knew ghosts looked different, but seeing Gwaine with modern clothes and old eyes was even worse, more terrifying. It wasn’t a matter of restless death, but rather of nightmares and ashes.

She sucked her lips. They all had changed, someone just slightly, someone a little more. Arthur’s hair was darker, Gwen’s eyes had an exotic tinge of gold around her pupils. Percival was even taller than before, and Lancelot’s voice was hoarser. Little things.

However, Gwaine was the exact same person Morgana had last seen in Avalon. Not even his haircut had changed, wavy locks bordering his jaw and hiding the nape of his neck.

It made her skin crawl.

Merlin elbowed her and whispered discretely in her ear, “Suck it up, snake queen. He’s onto you.”

‘He’ probably being Arthur, who hadn’t missed any of her moves since Gwaine had entered the pub. It might have also referred to Percival, though, who was fixing her like a hawk who had chosen its prey.

It could have meant Gwaine, because he was the only real danger there, and Morgana swore his eyes were burning holes through her body every time he casually looked in her direction. And it was casual, because he too was religiously avoiding eye contact.

“Shut up, badger,” Morgana bit back automatically.

Merlin gave her a grin and elbowed her playfully.

She sighed, troubled, “Can you buy me a minute?”

“You’re sitting next to me. If they look at me, they’ll see you too.”

“I need to go home,” she murmured, suffocating.

Merlin frowned and realised only in that moment that Morgana was hardly breathing. He held her hand under the table, and she felt his magic tickling her skin.

The sensation puzzled her, and she gazed at Merlin with her eyes wide open. He smiled reassuringly.

Morgana sighed and leaned against the back of the bench, praying for the evening to be over soon. She zoned out, muffling down the voices of her friends, focusing slowly on her breathing.

“What have you been doing all this time? I’ve never found you,” Arthur was asking.

Gwaine did a thing with his face. It wasn’t a grimace, it wasn’t a smile. It was just some awkward, grievous something, a legacy of all the years spent at the feet of a well.

If Morgana felt his eyes sliding quickly at her direction, she was good at ignoring it.

“I was watching.”

“Were you in Avalon for all this time?”

Gwaine sucked his lips and grinned childishly.

“Yeah. Oh, Nimueh says hi!”

Arthur scowled, his sour expression very close to a pout.

“Did you tell her to fuck off?”

“Hell no. I’m her favourite nephew, I’m not spoiling it.”

Gwen choked on her root beer.

“I’m sorry, did you just say _nephew_?”

Arthur huffed, “Yes, haven’t you heard? The High Priestess was his aunt.”

Gwaine scratched his nose and cackled, “Well, my baby sister is the Crown of white magic, so at least that evens things up.”

“You think?”

Elyan guffawed, appalled.

“Is it only me or this is hysterical? Arthur, your boyfriend is the most powerful sorcerer ever, half of Gwaine’s family is magic and your sister is a witch. Thank God magic was banished from Camelot.”

Percival chortled, “Don’t forget Lancelot’s mother, the first Lady of the Lake.”

“Right!”

“I’m not sure she was the first,” Lancelot commented for the sake of accuracy.

Arthur sighed and shook his head in defeat.

“Believe me, the irony hasn’t escaped me. I can hear my father turning in his grave.”

Merlin snorted softly.

“I’m okay with that,” he muttered under his breath, eliciting a small laugh from Morgana.

Lancelot was frowning, though. He forgot for a moment that he and Merlin were supposed to let the attention drift away from Morgana’s corner and he asked, “Why only now?”

Gwaine shrugged and curled his lips, grinning unapologetically.

“It felt like a good time to do it. You know, with the sexual revolution and all. Have you tried using phosphorescent condoms? They’re fucking fantastic.”

Elyan slammed his fists on the table, laughing to his tears.

Leon cuffed Gwaine’s nape, flagging his best outraged mother voice.

“Don’t be crass.”

“Why? Don’t tell me you aren’t enjoying it! I swear, it was way too stuffy at our times.”

“You want me to believe you came back for sex?”

Gwaine was smirking like a madman and Morgana lost a heartbeat at the blatant lie in his eyes. Was she really the only one seeing it? Was she?

She swallowed, fighting back the shiver down her spine.

Gwaine just shrugged. The former captain of arms sighed, looking legitimately frustrated. Lancelot chuckled and he shook his head.

“Whatever. It’s good to have you back.”

Gwaine’s crazed stare mellowed slightly, and a crumble of his defences fell off.

“Thanks. It’s good to be back.”

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

Merlin promised to take Morgana home, despite her vivid protests of being perfectly able to take the tube on her own, and Gwen tried to dissimulate her harsh judgement when Elyan offered Gwaine to hit his place and purloin his flatmate’s secret stash of weed.

Arthur and Lancelot tarried in the pub, waiting patiently for their friends to go back home.

They had Percival against the wall of the back alley as soon as the others left.

Arthur was furious.

“What the Hell were you thinking?” he roared.

Percival stiffened, and he tried to act unconcerned.

“I thought you would be happy to see a friend.”

Arthur hissed, “You should have warned us.”

“I meant no harm.”

“Bullshit! You knew it was gonna hurt Morgana. That’s why you did it!” he yelled.

“She will get over it. She got over killing Elyan, right?”

Arthur grabbed him by the jacket, waving his clenched fist close to Percival’s cheekbone.

“She almost lost it in there! Is that what you want, ah? Are you really that poor?”

Percival gritted his teeth.

“She’s getting away with nothing! She did too much to us, you can’t seriously allow that!”

Lancelot tried to quell him, but Arthur was already shouting in his face.

“Nothing? Nothing? You have no idea what it’s like when she panics. You haven’t heard her screaming!”

“No, I’ve heard Gwaine screaming!” Percival shouted back, “While she tortured him! Arthur, I respect you, but just because you were married to her once, it doesn’t mean you can trust her."

Arthur turned ashen and he stepped back, shocked.

“Who told you that?” he uttered slowly.

There was an uncomfortable moment of silence and Percival exchanged a quick glance with Lancelot, who stiffened. The man frowned and shook his head, looking guilty.

“I’m sorry. I thought telling him would help. I was wrong.”

Arthur was gobsmacked. He turned to Lancelot, wild-eyed.

“How did you even know?”

“I figured it out when I was seventeen, after you remembered. You made sense that way.”

Percival shifted his balance.

“Arthur…”

Arthur stopped him, pointing an accusing finger at him.

“Shut up. Just shut up! You don’t know anything! You weren’t there. She could still be in Avalon, safe and everything, but she is here. She came back for me, and if you hurt her again, God help you, Percival.”

“Don’t you hear yourself? Morgana is a witch! She is probably playing with us, just like she did last time, and you are letting her!”

It was the wrong choice of words, if a right one even existed.

Percival had no idea what ‘last time’ meant for Arthur. He didn’t know his last was Arthur’s first, and that _things_ had changed forever. ‘Last time’ had changed Arthur forever.

It wasn’t the poison Morgana had drunk for him in France, the hand she had treated during the War or anything else that made him awfully sure Morgana would never turn her back on him again.

It was their last time. It was Ywain calling him “Da’” in his sleepy voice, it was the faint scent of soap in their old house, when Arthur had feared his body would forever be just an enemy to him and Morgana had learned to make him moan just to buy him time until he found the courage to admit the truth.

He snapped.

He sprinted forward and grabbed Percival by the neck of his shirt, pulling him down abruptly, and his fist collided with the man’s face in a smacking uppercut. He heard his own knuckles cracking and Percival gasped with pain, but Arthur had never been so furious in decades. Decades.

“Arthur!”

Lancelot seized him by the shoulders, pulling him away from Percival. The tall soldier stumbled against the wall of the alley, shocked.

Arthur’s fist hurt like Hell, but he didn’t give a damn.

“It’s okay. Don’t worry, Lance. I’m not doing it again,” Arthur promised, but it took more than a few moments for Lancelot to finally let go of him.

Percival spat, and there was blood on his teeth and blood in his saliva.

Arthur glared at him.

“We’re not in Camelot,” he said, cold and resolute. “I’m not your king anymore and you don’t have to follow my orders. But if you can’t forgive Morgana, then it’s better if you don’t show your face again.”

Percival grunted stubbornly, “I am a knight of Camelot until the day I die.”

 “You _have_ died, Percival. We’ve all died. This is a new world, and you’d better keep up.”

Arthur turned silently and walked away, leaving Lancelot and Percival alone in the alley.

Lancelot sighed gravely. He looked disappointed, perhaps with himself, perhaps with the man in front of him. He raked his hand through his hair with a dejected grimace.

“How’s your face?” he asked.

Percival answered slowly, massaging his swelling jaw, “Not good, but better than his hand, probably. Last mate who socked me broke his thumb.”

“I think Arthur can deal a punch better than that.”

“Possibly. Holy fuck, it hurts,” Percival groaned.

“You should put some ice on it.”

“Think I don’t know that?” he scoffed. “How do you… Lance, I’m serious here. She tried to kill us for years, and with some of us, she actually managed it. You cannot really believe a bit of quality time with Arthur is enough to fix that kind of damage. She’s dangerous.”

Lancelot sighed, pained and worn out.

“I told you already, things are different now. You weren’t in Avalon, you can’t remember all our past lives, but I do, so you have to trust me on this. Morgana and Arthur have been through a lot, and they’ve always stuck together, no matter what. If you’re afraid Morgana will turn her back on Arthur again, then don’t make her think she’s alone against his friends, because that’s what broke her the first time. She’s terrified of being alone.”

“How do you know?”

“Because she’s my friend. Just like you are.”

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

Gwen called her while Morgana was still at work, and she was glaring balefully at an infinite string of numbers and names. Her phone going off was actually a relief for her.

“Gwen?”

“If you can guess who I met today, I’ll give you my blue coat.”

Morgana arched a single eyebrow, intrigued.

“I like the sound of it. What if I lose?”

“You’re giving me your Valentino shoes.”

“Deal.”

Morgana tried a couple of names. She begged for a last guess.

Apparently, Gwen was getting new shoes.

They met on the following day at their favourite café, a quiet and cosy place with a humongous amount of embroidered cushions and fresh flowers. It was frilly and low-key kitsch, but their coffee was great and a substantial number of Morgana’s wet dreams involved their carrot cake.

She handed over Gwen her carefully packed shoes.

“A deal is a deal,” she resigned herself mournfully.

The brown-haired woman sitting next to Gwen twisted her lips, curious.

“What deal?”

Morgana pouted.

“You.”

“I’m a deal?”

Gwen chuckled, “Totally. I bet Morgana would never guess who was our new chief editor.”

“She could have googled it.”

“I did. It’s not on the internet yet,” Morgana grimaced.

She sighed and gazed hopelessly at the shoebox, “Please, treat my babies well.”

Gwen nodded gravely.

“I’ll guard them with my life.”

Morgana sat on the puffy cushions spread over the velvet chesterfield and turned to the newcomer.

“So, how much do you know?”

“Right now only pieces and bits. Since she’s our top journalist, I expected Gwen to be much better at explaining stuff.”

Gwen justified herself, “I’m still wrapping my head around all this mess. Information keep popping up and the only two people who seem to understand what’s going on are Morgana and Merlin.”

“That’s because we are the only ones understanding what’s going on. It comes with the job,” Morgana admitted, one smirk shy of bragging.

“Which is?”

Morgana smiled humorously and rested her chin on her hands.

“Hello, Mithian. I’m Morgana, Queen of Avalon. How can I help you?”

Mithian laughed.

“Well for starters, you could tell me how we all ended up here in the twenty-first century, when people think we’re legends.”

“Easy enough: we’ve all reincarnated.”

“That much was obvious, thanks,” Mithian retorted ironically. “But I’m neither Buddhist nor Hindu, so I’m actually asking how and why.”

Morgana hummed sympathetically.

“I’ll try to make it easy. What would you do for Arthur?”

Mithian answered without even blinking.

“Anything. He’s the best man I’ve ever know.”

Morgana clicked her tongue.

“There’s your how and your why. We are all here because we are loyal to Arthur, because we believe in his power to set things right.”

Gwen focused her attention on Morgana, her interest caught. “You’ve never said that. I supposed it was just coincidence.”

Morgana tilted her head.

“Maybe three or four of us could pass as a coincidence, but everybody? Even Mithian? There, there, Gwen.”

Her friend frowned, mockingly sad.

“Here’s to wishful thinking.”

Mithian pursed her lips, unconvinced.

“No, I don’t buy it. Gwen tells me we’ve been reincarnating through times. I’m going to have to trust her on that because I can’t remember anything except for my memories as a princess, but that’s the point: why do I remember? Why do we all remember?”

Morgana nodded, pleased with Mithian’s sound reasoning.

“The answer is the same: Arthur. He needs us. He is the Once and Future King, the king that was promised. But a king needs his knights,” and there she smirked, eyeing the two women significantly. “And he needs a queen. But since my little brother is such a hopeless mess, apparently one queen alone isn’t enough to deal with his shit.”

Mithian rested her elbows on the marble table, thinking. Pondering.

“Or maybe, he’s aiming high,” she mused out loud. “The greater the task, the greater the need. What is he planning?”

“Right now nothing,” Morgana said. “Yet.”

She watched Mithian nodding pensively, and she found herself smiling.

Arthur was the youngest and most successful lawyer in the entire country. Gwen was a top-notch journalist, Lancelot supported a ridiculous quantity of charity organisations and dealt with countless politicians on a day-to-day basis. Percival was freakishly high in the military rank given how young he was, and the same went for Leon with the administrative system. Just the previous month, Merlin had hacked the CIA servers out of spite and the American government still had no clue about him. Veterans of the financial field were growing afraid of upsetting Morgana, and Elyan had an impressive list of Nobel Prizes memorised on speed dial.

And then, Morgana mentally added, there was Gwaine. Gwaine, who never, ever talked about his job at the NCA but she had an inkling or two, and it was worrying, and it was promising.

Gwen bit her thumb.

“How long do you think Arthur will keep quiet?”

“With the rate of aggravation this world is facing? It’s just a matter of time. I think we have to thank Merlin if he hasn’t already started a revolution.”

Mithian hummed, “But he will, won’t he? He will start a revolution.”

Morgana wasn’t too sure about that. Revolution was too often a synonym for war, and war implied bloodshed. Arthur would not stand that.

No, it wasn’t going to be a revolution. Not just that.

If Arthur ever decided to take action – and he was going to do it, because she knew her brother too well and there was only so much he could put up with before taking matters in his hands – he would do something great. Something big. He had learned from his past experiences and he had gathered something from every life, every war, every victory. Now he knew how to move in the shadows, how staying off stage, behind the curtains, usually meant more decisional power, more space of action.

He was the king that was promised. He was going to rule.

Morgana had a feeling a lot of things were going to change in maybe a handful of years, and she was going to enjoy being part of the play. This time she hadn’t been cast as a villain.

“Let him figure out how to proceed,” she said. “He’s still too young. We are all too young, we can’t rush it.”

Gwen looked tormented.

“He died last time.”

“He was fighting against Morgana last time, not with her,” Mithian pointed out.

Morgana smiled spiritedly.

“Exactly. We’re all back, and we’re all with him now. Things will be different.”

Arthur would take over the world.

He had the knights of the Round Table, his queens and the two most powerful sorcerers in the entire history, all in the right places, and all at his side.

He just needed to choose his war, and then they would all reunite under the banners of Camelot once again. They were ready, they were wise and they were brave.

In some ways, Arthur had already won.

The world wasn’t even going to know what had hit it.

_Long live the king, long live the king._

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

Arthur could tell his sister had been thinking things for days. He knew it by the way she had been avoiding his eyes, so it didn’t come too much as a surprise when she banged her favourite tea mug against the kitchen counter and sighed tiredly.

Still, of all the things Arthur had expected Morgana to say, that was possibly the only one which hadn’t crossed his mind.

“I want to go to the States.”

It took barely a moment for Arthur to catch her true meaning. He cringed.

“Don’t even think about it.”

Morgana sucked her lips. Her hands were trembling and he was acutely aware of the tears fighting to fall from his sister’s eyes.

“I need to see him. I need to know he’s well,” she pleaded.

Arthur made a sad grimace and tried to reason with her.

“We don’t even know if he’s alive, or if he still lives there. Don’t do that.”

“He’s my son, Arthur!” she cried, giving in to her tears.

“He’s mine as well!” he shouted, regretting it immediately when Morgana flinched.

He sighed.

“I tell you, it’s a bad idea. What if he recognises you?”

Morgana sobbed. Arthur didn’t reach for her, he didn’t hug her. In that moment she didn’t need tenderness: she needed someone to force her to understand how potentially destructive her wish was.

“I wouldn’t come that close,” she whispered.

Arthur shook his head, anguished.

“Don’t do it, Morgana. It’s too dangerous.”

“I’m not afraid.”

“I meant for him.”

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

The first time Morgana and Gwaine were alone together, they were in front of the cinema, waiting for the rest of the Round Table to arrive – much to Arthur’s dismay, they had been calling themselves so since Mithian had arrived, closing the circle that had once been.

Really, their dumbass king had the worst tendency of hiding behind a finger.

It was quite unexpected on Gwaine’s part to be already there, because while Morgana was always ten minutes early for every appointment, Gwaine had a whole history of racing with his car and running like mad down the streets and pushing through the crowd, ever the latecomer.

He didn’t immediately recognise her.

She was sitting on a bench in front of the cinema, smoking her cigarette quietly, people-watching.

An older woman passed her by with a child in her arms and Morgana smiled tenderly. Not at the woman: at the child. She waved her hands at him until the child giggled and waved back.

It was such a little thing. Such a simple, inconsequential scene. It smacked Gwaine like a slap in the face.

He silently walked closer, holding his breath. He knew the moment Morgana would see him, she would barricade again behind her familiar wall of wit and guardedness. It was all part of her mask: the designer outfits, the refined make-up and her ironed curls. Even her silvery laugh played a role in her complex shield.

Gwaine knew how that worked. He carried the same armour, just made up of brawls and drunken bantering instead of high heels and expensive perfumes.

“My lady,” he greeted her plainly, gesturing with his hand. She nodded silently and went back to her cigarette.

They kept a heavy silence and mulishly ignored each other for a few minutes before Morgana whispered ruefully, tilting her head slightly and glancing somewhere in his direction.

“Did I pass your test?”

She spoke so softly that Gwaine could have veritably pretended he hadn’t heard her, but he was generally bad at doing the sensible thing.

“Don’t know, lady Morgana. Did I made a test?”

The irony in his voice riled her up, which was good because Gwaine wasn’t used to seeing her anything but smart and spiky. He wasn’t ready to catch her when she was pensive or, Goddess forbid, heartsick.

Morgana scoffed and rolled her eyes.

“Oh please. Do you think I couldn’t feel you all those years? For all that time?” she sneered and mocked him, “I’ve never thought you to be the voyeur type, sir Gwaine. I rather pictured you as a man of action.”

“Well, I’m here now, my lady. Definitely past watching.”

“It didn’t seem so to me.”

“Why, were you watching too?”

An angry blush coloured her cheeks, and she tensed. Something in her pose reminded him of a panther ready to attack. Danger, danger.

Gwaine laughed, taunting her, “You haven’t changed a bit, lady Morgana.”

“I have changed. You’re not kneeling and begging for your life,” she rebutted.

It was Gwaine’s turn to stiffen. He gritted his teeth and murmured angrily, “I’ve never begged.”

“Because I didn’t want you to.”

“Because I would never beg you.”

He saw the shiver shaking her arms, the pallor of her skin. It made him feel victorious. It stabbed him like a dagger right in his guts.

They heard Gwen and Lancelot calling as the young couple approached them. Morgana answered with a smile and informed Gwen she had already bought the tickets for everyone. She was so quick to act as though their exchange had never happened, polished demeanour and lulling chuckles. It upset Gwaine.

He didn’t really know why. Maybe it was just envy. He was never that good at putting on his masks again. Either he kept them always in place or it would take him some time to hide his true face again.It was causing him troubles at work.

However, Lancelot needed to take just one look at Gwaine and Morgana to decide it was better to keep them far from each other for the rest of the night. He and Gwen furtively formed a barrier around Morgana, which wasn’t really meant to protect her as much as it was meant to protect everybody and the balance they were progressively restoring within the Round Table.

Yet, the tension between them was so heavy it barely waned.

Merlin kept eyeing them strangely for the entire night, so Gwaine went home half expecting to receive an urgent phone call from him within the next two days. He stripped down and jumped on his bed, distractedly lighting a cigarette.

He looked at the foggy clouds of smoke, wondering if it hadn’t all been just plain pointless.

He hadn’t been truly ready to come back, after all.

Freya was probably shaking her head at him, scowling disappointedly.

On the opposite side of the city, Merlin proved to be patient enough to keep quiet until they were all back home and Arthur was dozing drunkenly under their bedsheets.

He checked his phone a few times, questioning himself. He gave up with a sigh and silently left the room.

He all but ambushed Morgana in the kitchen while she was making herself some tea.

“Jesus Christ, Merlin! You startled me!” she cried out as he appeared at her back.

“Sssh!” he shushed her. “ Arthur’s sleeping.”

“As you should!” she hissed.

“What happened with Gwaine?”

She arched her eyebrows, glancing him sideways.

“Nothing. Why would you think something happened?”

“Ah, I don’t know, maybe because I’m not deaf, blind and utterly stupid?”

“Now you’ve just described Arthur.”

“I did say I’m not like that,” he reminded her poignantly.

Morgana sighed and looked away. She toyed with her tea mug, hoping Merlin would give up and go back to his and Arthur’s bedroom, but he only crossed his arms and glared pointedly at her.

“Come on. Go on, ignore me. It’s not like I have dealt with Pendragons’ bullshits for years and I know how to get you to talk.”

She groaned.

“Give me some time, Merlin.”

“Not a chance. If you wanted time, you could have stayed in Avalon. But you’re here, and so you have to deal with it. It’s the living word, things change. I mean, look at me and Arthur,” he smirked full of hope, still incredulous himself. Happy, behind his veil of exasperation.

“I am looking,” Morgana whispered wistfully, a haunted shadow flicking through her face.

“And?”

She shook her head and sipped her tea, silent.

Merlin sighed and touched her shoulder, murmuring softly her name.

Morgana remembered something from her long talks with Merlin, from their secret midnight chats when he had told her about Aithusa and Kilgarrah and she had listened to him spinning tales and recollections of the young sorcerers living safely in the Isle of the Blessed.

“Your dragon was so fond of saying you and Arthur are two sides of the same coin. His visions really spanned far.”

 “Yes. It was his way of speaking destiny. He never mentioned how many coins there were, though,” Merlin commented calmly.

“No, I guess he didn’t,” she acquiesced.

“Are you and Gwaine another coin?”

Morgana paled and her eyes dimmed. She moaned softly, gulping down the burning of her tears.

She was tired of crying. It made her feel like a scared little girl, albeit she was neither scared nor little.

“Did you know he could see ghosts?” she breathed.

Merlin startled.

“What? Who, Gwaine?”

“Yes.”

“No,” he denied. “How–”

How did she know. Yes, a pleasant thing to explain.

“I saw it in his head.”

She didn’t add anything else and oddly enough Merlin didn’t pressure her for more information.

He sighed, going pale, “Gods, it must have been horrible for him. All the people that died in Camelot were probably still there. How didn’t he go crazy?”

Morgana let out a cynical puff.

“Do you seriously think he wasn’t?”

Merlin grimaced, horrified.

“Now that you ask me, I’m not so sure.”

She hummed concordantly.

“He was very close. He was already bordering madness when he first arrived in Camelot. He kept it at bay only through the strength of his will.”

“Gods.”

Morgana wished she had her cigarettes with her. Her fingers itched, and her tea was going cold. Maybe there was a vending machine in the neighbourhood. She had never checked.

She was sliding from anxiety to frustration, and between all that, she remembered Gwaine sometimes smoke too. He had lent her his lighter once.

She chuckled hysterically.

“Do you think he still sees them?” Merlin ventured.

“I still have my powers, and so do you. But mine is just a guess.”

The warlock looked mortified.

“We should ask. Make sure he’s okay.”

She shook her head.

“He’s spent all this time in Avalon, Freya would have never let him go if she wasn’t sure he could make it, no matter how much Arthur could need him. Look at him next time you meet, you’ll see that the madness is gone. It’s the rest that is still there.”

“So he’s not okay.”

Morgana clenched and unclenched her fist nervously. She sucked her lips and resigned herself to a night of fitful sleep. She prayed she would dream of Freya. Freya always helped her, despite the distance that separated them.

“No, he’s not. But he’s strong. That might be his only real quality.”

“He’s got many qualities.”

“But strength is the one that defines him. Lance is noble, Arthur is brave, Gwaine is strong. He can fight anything.”

Merlin rubbed his hand on his face.

He remembered Morgana’s tea and grabbed her mug, looking thoughtful as he made the liquid warm again with a golden glance. She thanked him and drank her last sips of tea.

She fooled herself into believing that the conversation was over, but clearly Merlin’s thoughts were reeling and he didn’t know when he should rather to let things drop.

“What if the enemy is someone as strong as him? If it’s himself?”

Morgana bit her lip and fought back a new surge of tears.

She was suddenly very tired.

She put her head in her hands, trying not to think too hard about the mess she was in, of the dreams that were awaiting her back in her room. She failed miserably.

“Then he’ll have a huge problem.”

Merlin blanched.

“Go back to bed, Merlin,” she murmured. “Arthur wakes up when he senses he’s alone.”

Merlin mercifully complied without even hinting at any question or joke about her knowledge of Arthur’s sleeping habits. It was still a sore point, that last life Arthur and she had shared together, maybe because it was so very recent, maybe because Morgana feared she wasn’t going to be that happy ever again. At least Merlin could understand that.

He kissed her goodnight and apologised. For making her talk. For talking himself.

The next morning, Morgana tried to call Gwaine. He didn’t pick up.

She couldn’t know he had spent the whole night awake, half drunk, half not, and that he was now staring at his phone, drowning in a strange and wistful sensation as he saw her name flashing on the screen.

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

“No smoking in this house.”

“Come on, daddy. It doesn’t even stink: it’s mentholated!”

“No smoke.”

Morgana pouted but she obediently put her cigarette back in its packet.

Her father sat on the chair in front of her and smiled.

“So, tell your old man how things have been going.”

“If I’m not allowed to smoke, you’re not allowed to call yourself ‘old’,” she deadpanned.

“I don’t know, my shoulders have been making this cracky noise when I stretch. I think I’m also getting wrinkles. Do you see them?” he asked, leaning towards his daughter and pointing to the crow’s feet that had been circling his eyes since he was thirty.

Morgana laughed.

“You are as handsome as ever, daddy,” she said with a tender smile.

He kissed her hand.

“Thank you, honey. You’re handsomer.”

She tittered. Morgana liked being back in her father’s house. She hadn’t considered it home since the day she had remembered all her past lives, but it was still soothingly familiar, comforting. It brimmed with love and tender memories. It was her safe place.

Much like Arthur, her father always made her feel wanted, protected.

“How’s your mother?” he inquired.

Morgana made a mocking face and let out a sigh.

“Puzzled by the number of gay men in my life.”

Her father laughed quietly.

“She still doesn’t like Arthur, does she?”

“Even less now that his boyfriend is living with us too.”

“Well, on her defence, that was absurdly fast.”

Morgana smiled kindly.

“They have been waiting for each other for a long time.”

Her father scratched his perfectly shaved chin – it was still a little disturbing: he had sported a lumberjack beard for most of his life. Now that he was clean-shaved, he looked even more like Gorlois. Sometimes, Morgana found it difficult to stop their faces from superimposing. Sometimes, she wondered.

“For some strange reason, I used to think you two were going to get together sooner or later, especially after he started climbing in your bedroom. He’s an awkward gay.”

Morgana gave her father a patronising glance and teased him, “That’s just because your gaydar sucks.”

He grunted, “Not this story again.”

“I tell you, mine works splendidly,” she warbled. “I’m probably the only one in the entire family who can claim that.”

“Be thankful your mother’s is as awful as mine or you wouldn’t be here in the first place.”

Morgana shushed him, “Minor details.”

“My gaydar doesn’t suck,” her father pointed out, just for the sake of the argument.

“If you missed Arthur’s homosexuality, it does,” she emphasised.

“He’s just a strange a boy. He lit up when he was around you, and you did the same. Even when you talk about him…”

Morgana tilted her head at that and she arched her eyebrows, curious.

“Daddy? Don’t tell me you hoped I would marry him and get two children and a dog. Please.”

“Eh. Maybe the dog,” he hawed ironically.

“Dad!”

Her father laughed heartily.

“I’m just saying, you two are really close. When you were little, sometimes it felt like you were a family of your own, like…”

His face looked slightly troubled and Morgana worried. She touched his arm with the hand he had kissed.

“Daddy, are you all right?”

“I’m happy to be your father, Morgana. Don’t ever doubt that. I could have never wished for a better daughter, but sometimes I feel like it was an honour someone bestowed upon me rather than sheer luck. You and Arthur are not quite like other people. You’re different. Your friend Lancelot, he is like you in that, although I feel like he’s mostly following what you two have in mind.” Her father grinned youthfully, lightening his thoughtful mood, “Which is trouble, usually.”

“Excuse me, I’m not trouble,” Morgana defended herself, skirting by her father’s insights. They were giving her goosebumps. It sounded almost as if he _knew_.

“You bonded over kicking your schoolmates’ arses,” the man argued.

“I could have handled it on my own, believe me. He just stepped in.”

Her father hummed, smiling benevolently.

“He’s always been very protective of you, hasn’t he?”

“He’s my brother,” Morgana answered without thinking. She gaped. “I mean–“

Her father’s smile widened.

“Yeah, Morgana and Arthur. It’s a little bit bizarre, isn’t it?”

“What?”

“This, you, all your friends: Lancelot, Merlin, Gwen. Your mother was in a Zimmer Bradley phase when she was pregnant with you, you know? That’s why we called you Morgana. She wanted to go for Morgaine, but I liked Morgana better.”

She scowled. Of all the Arthurian retellings she had suffered, _The Mists of Avalon_ was possibly her least favourite. The first time she had tried to read it, it had made her skin crawl.

“Thank Mercy she wasn’t reading Harry Potter, then. Hermione would have been a mouthful.”

Her father laughed.

“You should honour the coincidence, though, and call your first son Mordred.”

“Mordred isn’t my son,” Morgana corrected him.

She didn’t immediately register her use of the present tense. What was going on with her?

Her father gave her a curious smile which sent her over the edge.

Her heart skipped a beat when he said, “Right. In the legends they say he was Morgause’s, don’t they? Morgan’s sister.”

Yes. But Morgana didn’t want to think about that.

After a millennium and more, she was still doubtful when talking about Mordred. Morgana didn’t know what the boy had been to her. Surely not a friend, hardly an ally. Her conscience, maybe. Her regrets made flesh. And Morgause was the shadow lurking behind her nightmares, the constant reminder of everything Morgana had done wrong.

“This is useless talking, anyway. I’m not having any children, raising Arthur and Merlin is already troublesome enough.”

Her father snorted, amused.

“So you’re the mother figure of the house? Poor brats.”

“I’m the everything figure of the house,” she clarified. “I make breakfast, change the lightbulbs and remind them to check both ways before crossing the street.”

“Being a single mother sucks,” he agreed humorously.

Morgana smirked.

“I know, right? I actually work only to distract myself from my sons.”

“You should make friends with the neighbours and hope they have children too. It helps a lot.”

She clicked her tongue and blinked pensively.

“I wouldn’t know. Arthur is easily influenced, I can’t trust anyone with him.”

“You have to let him leave the nest and spread his wings at some point.”

“He would probably break his skull.”

“It seems a sturdy skull.”

“What you’re trying to say is that he’s thick-headed.”

Her father guffawed.

He looked younger when he laughed. The wrinkles around his eyes seemed less deep and the grey in his blonde ringlets turned back to gold. His whole face shone with cheerfulness.

Morgana felt warm in her heart. Arthur was her home, but her father was her joy.

She got up only to sit on his legs and she hugged him tightly. She gave him a smacking kiss on his temple and her father kissed her back on her cheek.

He still looked at her as though he was ready to grab the moon and give it to her.

Forever daddy’s little girl indeed, just like he had promised.

“So, where do you want to go for dinner? We can talk about your last promotion and our common lack of boyfriends.”

Morgana hesitated.

“Yes. About that, there is this man in my office…”

“Morgana, I don’t need my daughter to set me up on a date.”

“I just want to make sure you’re happy,” she apologised.

Not that she really felt guilty about it. Her colleague was of the right age, he had a tasteful sense of humour and a charming smile. And he had a soft spot for blondes, which always helped.

“It should be the other way around, honey.”

“I am happy.”

Her father eyed her sceptically and tapped his fingertip on her cheeks, right under the huge eye-bags her make-up hadn’t hidden too perfectly. She slapped his hand away.

“Really, I am!” she said. “I have Arthur, and I have my friends. It’s good. I’m good.”

He sighed.

“Fine, give me his number. I’m sure you already have it.”

Morgana grinned smugly and kissed his temple again.

“You won’t regret it, daddy.”

“I was never going to let your mother call you Hermione, anyway.”

She chuckled.

“Thank you. This is why you are a perfect father and I love you.”

“No child of mine could ever be a Gryffindor,” he explained. “Thankfully, you soon turned out to be a Ravenclaw so I didn’t need to give you up for adoption."

“Your _Harry Potter_ craze is worse than Merlin’s, but at least you can tell a Slytherin from a Ravenclaw.”

“I’ll fight whoever says my baby girl is a snake.”

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

Gwaine was standing under the hot jet of his shower, his forehead pressed against the blue tiles of the bathroom.

He punched repeatedly his fist against the wall, muscles sore from training and nerves on a wreck from everything else. His other hand went between his legs, moving against his better sense while he thought of red, fleshy lips and cold fingers.

She would have been beautiful with her hair wet and tangled like black snakes coiled on her shoulders.

He groaned and bit the inside of his cheek, water licking down his body, streaming over the fresh bite-marks on his hips and the bullet scars on his back.

He was sure she wouldn’t have touched him like that, not so fast, not so harshly. But Gwaine was tied up in a knot of aggressiveness and lost causes and he needed to clear his nerves.

For a short moment, he wished his one night stand would get up from the bed and join him in the shower to fuck him raw. He immediately pushed away that thought. He was already feeling sick enough without someone else touching him again. He would need to change his bedsheets. He liked the sex, the breathlessness, the adrenaline of hard hips or soft arms crashing against him, but he couldn’t stand that lingering smell of another person in his bed.

He moaned, squeezing his balls softly before moving back his hand to his cock.

She would have held it more delicately, not because she was shy or unsure, but rather because she just loved, _loved_ to tease. He could read it in the curve of her lips that she knew how to drive a man crazy.

She would have looked him in the eye, daring him to keep some control as he hardened in her hand.

She would have mocked him and smirked playfully at his moans.

Gwaine smiled tremulously, calling himself out for being a maniacal fool.

He panted and went on thinking about her behind his closed eyelids.

He had never been good at learning from past mistakes, anyway.

He thought he could almost feel her breath against the skin of his neck, and he imagined she would bite him under his ear, pressing her breasts against his naked chest as she sucked on his pulse.

It was torture.

When he came, he felt even more bothered and frustrated than before.

He turned the water from hot to scalding and he let it burn away every trace of pleasure from his skin.

Fucking masochist.

Too bad he couldn’t make his bones burn along.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Talking about things I didn’t plan: this whole Arthur-will-conquer-the-world thing was never planned. It just happened, like half of this fan fiction, really. I’m not even pretending I have it under control at this point.  
> And I’m not even sorry about Gwaine and stuff. I love my Avalon family. I want to kiss them all stupid. Except for Vivienne. Vivienne can die. Again.


	10. Courage, Strength and Magic

Gwaine remembered way earlier than what he had expected, probably because his spirit had still been on the wrong side of phantoms and daymares when he had braved the crossing of the Lake.

He was a week shy of twelve and his parents suddenly had to deal with a completely different child – withdrawn, pensive, bordering antisocial – for five long months before Gwaine sorted his shit out and managed to make it look as if he knew nothing of demons and war and ghosts of all forms. He later apologised for putting them through such worry. They still took him to see a shrink, his mature regret only a further reason to do it and do it fast.

Boy, had it been fun to mess with that old lady’s theories and notes.

He eventually got off by appearing like a very precocious child – that, he actually was – with a deep sensitivity – seriously? Fine, he could work with that.

He wasn’t going to pretend he didn’t like his parents doting on him a little more. It was a nice change. Gwaine had never had someone to treat him that tenderly: his mother Anna had been an anxious, defenceless parent rather than a protective one, and as sweet and motherly as Freya could be, she was still Gwaine’s baby sister, and he refused to be coddled by her.

So it felt good having someone who tucked him in for the night as a child and who actually grounded him the first time he got into a fight. Honestly, he was even glad his parents scolded him for his bad grades. It meant they cared.

He was a grownass adult trapped in the body of a child first, and in the shapes of an adolescent later. He was touchy and too smart for his peers. He learned to get older people to fucking listen to him and crafted a buffoon façade which helped him to get away with almost everything. It was basically just like last time. Easy-peasy, really. Almost boring.

He spent a lot of his time in the streets. Somehow, he stumbled into some very interesting individuals. They told him he looked like a very promising lad. He agreed with them.

 _“Give me a couple of years. Not even three. I’ll make sure you can find me,”_ he told them.

He grew up and the walls of his home began to feel too tight around him, so his Irish, iron-fisted mother helped him to find a place in the city. While he had tons of friends and spent most of his nights out, his mother knew her son was a lone wolf in his core, so she didn’t even suggest to him to find a flatmate. She leafed through the advertisements and then accompanied him in his mystical search for a place that could pass her critical judgement.

He signed a lease after only two weeks, and the interesting individuals knocked on his door. He grinned.

Three days later, he bought a coffee-maker and he took his father to see the flat, proud of having something of his own, like a respectable adult, with a respectable job.

His father looked around the pre-furnished rooms, apparently satisfied with Gwaine’s choice.

“Well son, at least now you don’t have to wait for me and your mother to be out when you want a fag.”

“I don’t smoke,” Gwaine promptly denied.

“Your mother found your cigarettes when you were still in school. Same type I used to smoke at your age, anyway. May have nicked one or two now and again.”

Gwaine made an affronted noise.

“Then why didn’t you say anything? I’ve spent the last eight years thinking you didn’t know!”

“Well, she also kept finding new packets of condoms, so we guessed if you were responsible enough to have safe sex, then we could let you get away with cigarettes.”

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

Arthur was lying on his bed and looking at the ceiling, his brain only half-fogged by the afterglow. His bedsheets smelled of sex and sweat, he had goosebumps down his arms and he could still taste Merlin in his mouth. He should have been content.

He sighed and closed his eyes.

“Morgana wants to go to America.”

Merlin jolted and propped up on his elbows.

“She what? Is she crazy?”

“More or less what I told her.”

Merlin frowned. His cheeks were still red with blush and there was a touch of languor in his movements. In another situation, Arthur would have grabbed him and pulled him back against the mattress, but at that moment his head was too heavy, and worry sat somewhere inside of his stomach. He didn’t know what to do. So he did nothing.

“Are you going with her?”

Arthur made a dissenting noise in his throat.

“No. And she’s not going either.”

“You know she will, eventually,” he warned him.

Arthur eyed him superciliously. Merlin needed to shave off that stupid stubble. It made him look scruffy, and it did things to Arthur’s self-control. It led him to remember that first night kiss they had shared outside their flat, how Merlin’s unshaved cheeks had grazed Arthur’s skin. It was a strange and scarcely explored type of feeling, of yearning, and Arthur was still learning how to deal with it. He didn’t have enough patience to do it, not while the sound of Morgana’s tears was still ringing in his ears.

“Why do you think I’m even talking to you?”

“Okay, what do we do then?”

“You tell me. I’ve already tried everything, aside from stealing her credit cards so she can’t buy the tickets.”

“She would sue you for that.”

Arthur grunted, irritated.

“I’m a lawyer, Merlin. I know that.”

“She’s gonna do it.”

“Yes, she is,” he acquiesced wearily.

Merlin sighed and rubbed his face with both hands.

“Then we do the only thing we can: we prepare a home for her to come back.”

Arthur mumbled, “I know what you’re thinking and it won’t work. Believe me, I’ve tried, Merlin. Those two idiots just refuse to listen.”

Merlin rose from their bed and stretched. He started walking up and down the bedroom, collecting the pieces of clothing scattered on the floor.

“You’ve been too gentle. Which, I must say, it’s unlike you.”

He put on a pair of baggies that made him look even ganglier and he smiled at Arthur.

“You get Gwaine, I get Morgana.”

Arthur frowned and sat up with a sigh.

“Why can’t I speak with Morgana? She is my sister.”

“Exactly,” Merlin grinned significantly.

“I don’t get it.”

“You don’t need to. Just make sure you get Gwaine to spill.”

“And why would you think he will open up to me?”

Merlin waved his hands as if everything was starkly obvious and Arthur was pretending to be slow only to vex him, “Because you’re Morgana’s brother. And you are his king.”

“I’m not anyone’s king, Merlin,” Arthur denied tiredly. “I don’t live in bloody Buckingham.”

Merlin stopped pacing only to offer him an annoyed stare.

“You can’t really be that dense, Arthur.”

“I’m not dense. You’re stupid!” he retorted.

“You are still their king,” Merlin slowly explained, as if he were indeed talking to a daft child. “Even if they don’t kneel in front you or you aren’t leading them into battle. They are your friends, but first of all, they are your knights. What do you think is bringing them back every time? It’s the loyalty to their king. Unwavering, now and forever. It’s the reason why Gwen and Lancelot always reach you first: they’ve always been the most loyal of them all.”

Arthur blinked, astonished.

Sure, he had discussed the matter with Morgana before, but he knew his sister had willingly followed him out of Avalon. The others were… the others were a different thing. They were supposed to be a different thing.

“They’ve been coming back because of me?”

Merlin sighed, exasperated.

“Yes, you prat. It’s always been you.”

“I believed it was destiny or some other shit like that.”

“It is. You are the Once and Future King, remember? This future stretches longer ahead than what you thought. It counts lifetimes.”

“What if I’m not ready, Merlin?”

“You’ll be. It’s who you are, Arthur.”

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

“It’s about damn time we have this talk,” Arthur told him.

The young man rested his elbows on the railings of the balcony, watching people and cars racing in a haze of colours and noises three floors below. He drank the last sip of his stout ale straight from the bottle, pensive.

Gwaine caught up with him, a cigarette lolling between his lips as he gathered his hair in a low bun.

“Nah. Don’t spoil it, princess. It’s so much better if we just drink it away.”

“I swear it, I didn’t punch you last time but nothing’s stopping me now.”

Gwaine didn’t believe his threat and he laughed it off. He knocked his own bottle of beer against the railings in a practiced gesture, and the cap promptly popped off.

“You want a fag?” he offered and Arthur scowled harder.

“I don’t smoke.”

Gwaine shrugged, “Same thing I used to tell my folks. Been smoking since year twelve.”

“That’s because you’re a lying cheat.”

“Oi, I’ve never cheated.”

“You are a liar, though, and a masochist. I’ve been around long enough to recognise self-destruction when I see it. Is that bruise new?”

Gwaine laughed and blew a cloud of smoke on Arthur’s face, making him cough.

“Come on, there. I didn’t run from my baby sister to get pestered by her sister’s little brother.”

“That actually made my head ache,” Arthur muttered, baffled.

“Yeah, it does sound like we’re all a little incestuous here, doesn’t it?”

Arthur froze.

“What?”

Gwaine faked a coughing fit. He didn’t even try to hide his grin, though.

“ _Married Morgana_.”

“Does everyone know about that?” Arthur grunted.

“Of course we do. Except for Leon. Leon doesn’t know. We didn’t want to give him a heart attack.”

Arthur made a face and gulped down a draught of beer.

Gwaine chortled, “You’re welcome, princess.”

Arthur elbowed him, hitting exactly the right spot where Gwaine’s clothes were hiding an angry bruise. He figured his friend had noticed how he had been favouring his other side for three days straight.

“Ow! You did it on purpose,” Gwaine accused him.

“You cannot prove it.”

“You’re half confessing it.”

“Don’t try legalese with me, or I’ll wipe the floor with your arse.”

Gwaine grimaced.

“Bloody lawyer.”

Arthur made their bottles bump and swigged his beer.

“Cheers,” he quipped.

Gwaine sighed and smoked the last of his cigarette. He stubbed it out against the railing and threw the butt down the balcony.

“Don’t judge,” he answered to Arthur’s arched eyebrows. The man shrugged.

“Do you have more beer?”

“You’re distracted, princess,” Gwaine kicked lightly the package of six in the corner of the balcony. “It’s so freezing cold it works better than the fridge.”

He took another bottle, opened it with the same experienced move and offered it to Arthur.

Arthur accepted the beer but still eyed Gwaine sideways.

“Have you been in a bar fight?”

“Are you crazy? If I get something like that on my form, they’ll kick me out of the Agency.”

“So why are you limping?”

Gwaine tilted his head, unconcerned, and he drank a little more of his beer.

“Got my arse kicked during training.”

“Training?”

“Training,” he confirmed.

“How many people were you training with?”

Gwaine chortled and grinned.

“A handful.”

Arthur frowned, assessing him with surgical scrupulousness.

“You’re not really working for the NCA, right?”

“I _am_ working with the NCA,” Gwaine retorted.

Arthur arched both his eyebrows, appalled.

“ _With_?”

“You heard me the first time, I’m not repeating it.”

Arthur sighed and rubbed his forehead.

“Bloody hell.”

Gwaine hummed. He pondered whether to light another cigarette or not, just out of boredom. He downed a draught of beer instead.

“You know, I don’t think Hell is all that bloody,” he mused. “Blood is too human. Hell is not.”

“I didn’t know you were a morbid drunk.”

“I’m not even drunk yet, this is me sober,” Gwaine pointed out with a roguish smirk.

Arthur didn’t need to know he had been drinking since he had got off from work, really. But he had dealt with some gory affairs for the entirety of the previous three weeks, and some medicines just never stopped working.

“Ah, that’s even better. And Merlin tells me we should help you make peace with Morgana. There’s no way I’m letting someone like you anywhere near my sister.”

Gwaine glanced at the late night traffic below his balcony. The beer at the bottom of the bottle tasted extra bitter.

“Well, there’s no way Morgana is letting me anywhere near her, so you won’t even have to strain yourself.”

“You want to get near her, though,” Arthur said. He wasn’t looking at Gwaine. His eyes were lost higher above between the city lights and the colourful games of shadows and reflections that showed upon the windows of the buildings around them.

Gwaine was hit with a disconnected urge to break something.

Just another thing to work on.

He turned away, opened his second beer and played deaf.

“Gwaine…”

“I told you, Arthur. Don’t push it.”

Arthur robbed him of his beer and glared contemptuously at him.

“It’s you who’s pushing it. I’ve cut you some slack, Gwaine. I’ve let you be in Avalon, I’ve let you be here for two years. Now it’s time you face it.”

Gwaine huffed and stole his beer back.

“There is really nothing to face. My head is fucked up. I know it, you know it, we all know it, and that’s it. You’re right in not wanting me near Morgana. She and I are like bullets.”

“As in?”

“Once it’s triggered, there’s no coming back. Keep her away, Arthur. Just keep her safe.”

“That’s what I’m trying to do here if you blockheads would listen to me.”

Gwaine snorted.

“I swear Freya told me the same thing once.”

“Good. So even our good Lady of the Lake called you a blockhead.”

Gwaine scowled, contrite.

“Eh. She may have said something nastier. She was a bit nervous. You know, women can be aggressive sometimes.”

“I live with Morgana,” Arthur reminded him. “Which brings us back to point one.”

Gwaine sighed. Arthur could be like a dog with a bone when he wanted. That was probably why he was coming off so successfully in his job.

“You’re not letting this drop, are you?”

“No,” Arthur confirmed, drinking a determined swallow of beer.

Gwaine groaned and joined him, downing his own generous draught. He breathed out and shook his head.

“Fine. But if we’re gonna do this, I’m bringing out the tequila.”

Arthur complied, “Whatever loosens your tongue.”

Gwaine smirked right on cue and waggled his eyebrows.

“Don’t worry, princess. My tongue can work miracles.”

“You’re so fucked up,” Arthur grimaced.

“Ah, you can only wish.”

“Okay, that’s it. Say goodbye to your teeth, Gwaine.”

Arthur turned abruptly and threw him a punch, but it was playful and anyway it really took a derisory amount of alcohol to make Arthur’s aim shite. Gwaine easily deflected it with his arm, laughing. He blocked another attempt, and his most precious care was only for his bottle of beer.

“You fight like a girl,” he jeered at him.

Arthur scowled. He feigned a move that caught Gwaine by surprise and he managed to kick him in the shins. He hit him exactly on another swollen bruise. Gwaine strangled down a pained groan.

Apparently, the man hadn’t lost his skills during the centuries. Fuck.

Arthur gloated, “Don’t let Morgana hear you.”

“Why, can she still wield a sword?” Gwaine huffed.

“I wouldn’t put it past her. But she’s into martial arts this century.”

“Now, that’s interesting.”

Arthur made a disgusted face.

“Tell me you’re not having dirty thoughts about it.”

“Alas no. I was actually thinking she could have killed a man dead even without martial arts. If she knows how to combat now, then it’s like having an assassin roaming free all across London.”

Arthur shrugged and sighed morosely.

“Let’s just say I feel very bad for the pickpocket who’ll ever target her.”

Gwaine could easily picture the scene in his head. He laughed quietly.

Arthur clicked his tongue.

“Say, Gwaine. Do you still see ghosts?”

“Does Merlin still have magic?” he asked back rhetorically.

Arthur frowned and drunk some more. He was going to get smashed soon at the rate he was going.

Well, Gwaine would gladly follow his king even into intoxication. He had taken the following day off for a reason. Several reasons, to be true.

By the Goddess, he was exhausted.

“Right. How are you faring?”

“It’s not too bad this time. It even turned out to be useful more than once.”

He grinned significantly, “A dead man who can talk makes investigations easier. It was different in Camelot because there they recognised my blood and I recognised them.” He gulped down his beer with a grimace. “Gods, I knew an awful lot of them.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be. It was your father, not you.”

“Some of them were.”

“Because you were the young prince and you knew shite. Eventually, you made up for that.”

“I really hope I did,” Arthur murmured morosely.

Gwaine elbowed him while he was drinking, making him spit inelegantly half of his beer.

Arthur shoved him away, “Prick!”

“Yeah, this prick here hated all you snobbish royals and noblemen, and yet you managed to make him accept a knighthood. In Camelot, of all places. Lance embarked on an aimless journey to prove himself he was worthy of being your knight, and the very woman who’s spent her last years trying to kill you would now murder anyone who as much as eyes you funnily. I daresay you made up for everything and then some.” Gwaine sneered, huffing with a shake of his shoulders, “You’re the bloody Messiah.”

“Sod off.”

Gwaine chuckled and went back into his kitchen to retrieve a half bottle of tequila. He poured some in his and in Arthur’s beer, spilling alcohol on the balcony floor. Next morning, they would wish that night had never happened, but he thought he could live with that.

“Arthur?”

“What?”

“Do the others know? Of the ghosts.”

“I didn’t tell them. Morgana knows, obviously, because–”

“Hands in my soul.”

“That,” Arthur confirmed with ill ease. “And Merlin, because he’s just a busybody so Morgana and I supposed he already knew, but apparently not.”

Gwaine drank a liberating draught. It tasted awful, but he could finally sense his head lightening a bit. It was taking progressively more to reach that comfortable numbness.

He ought to go see someone. Not the shrink his folks had brought him to when he was a kid. That woman had been plain useless and even a little stupid. He hoped she had retired.

“Ah. That explains why he’s been looking at me like that.”

“I’m trying to teach him subtlety,” Arthur apologised on Merlin’s behalf.

“You’re a terrible teacher.”

“He’s a terrible student.”

Gwaine cackled.

Merlin was an autodidact even in the most trivial aspects of life, he could probably eat up a whole library in a month and his quick thinking had only become faster with the challenge posed by technology. The warlock had proved he didn’t even need magic to kick asses. But he was hopeless around people, honest and transparent just like he had always been. It was a good thing. He was still Merlin and Arthur was still Arthur, even with a tie around his neck and a wardrobe full of expensive suits.

Gwaine shivered despite the blouson he was wearing, but he wasn’t going to go back inside. It felt nice, drinking carelessly out in the coldness of his balcony, watching people and life passing by with a friend standing beside him. It was a soothing kind of drunkenness.

“Lance?” he asked.

“Not to my knowledge, but you can never be sure with him. The man’s awfully keen.”

“He’s smart.”

“Are you complimenting someone who isn’t yourself?”

Arthur’s words were starting to sound a little slurred at the edges and his pauses were getting longer.

“Unlike other people, I can admit when someone is better than me, princess. Lance has a way of seeing everything.”

“He has. Too bad he usually never shares his insights.”

“No. Most of the time he doesn’t,” he agreed.

“Most of the time. He has opinions about you, too, but he wouldn’t spill them. He keeps saying it’s better if you tell me yourself why you’re so weird.”

Gwaine snorted. The fucking half-blood. Seemed like having water in your veins really helped in seeing through a person.

He was going to buy Lancelot a well-deserved pint on their next night out. If nothing else, for all the times he had kept his mouth shut and had simply regarded Gwaine with an exasperated smile instead of pestering him about his life.

He fished his packet of cigarettes from a pocket and lit himself one. He was smoking too much. Drinking too much. Not sleeping enough. He didn’t want to dream anymore.

“You know I should still be in Avalon, right? I didn’t feel the pull, the call that prompted you and Morgana.”

Arthur sighed.

“I suspected that much.”

“Freya said that you were going to need all of us, though, so I couldn’t back away. Healed or not, if my king calls, I answer.”

“Then I guess it’s up to me now to finish your sister’s work.”

Gwaine made a disagreeing noise.

“Bullet, Arthur,” he reminded him. “I only know how to fuck up things. Let me do whatever it is that you need and keep me away from Morgana, at least until I can make up my mind about her. You don’t want me lashing out at her. Hell, I wouldn’t want it either.”He grimaced, painfully aware of how Freya would react if Gwaine ever came close to upsetting Morgana, “If I ever do that, my sister would see me castrated in a minute. She’s freakishly overprotective.”

Arthur was nursing his beer, staring into the brown glass of the bottle.

“I can’t keep you away from Morgana.”

“Why not? It would be the wisest choice.”

“Because I already told you once, I’m not leaving anyone behind. Morgana is my sister and I love her, but she’s not the only person I care about. You’re my friend and this thing between you isn’t affecting only her. It’s wearing you out too.”

“It was easier when I was dead, I will admit that.”

“Everything was easier when we were dead. But it was also immobile.”

“I haven’t really moved that much.”

“Neither has Morgana. She can’t get rid of those nightmares and they’ve been getting worse since we’ve been in the War,” Arthur sighed, remorseful. “Sometimes I regret joining the army. Maybe if I hadn’t, she would have stayed away from the trenches.”

Gwaine scoffed sarcastically.

Most of the time, he tried not to think about that specific war. It had been the only occasion in which watching had felt wrong. Seeing Morgana with her clothes blotched with blood and Arthur trudging in the mud with a shotgun in his hands had tortured Gwaine endlessly. He had wanted to go back only to protect them. He hadn’t even cared how, surely Freya could have worked out something to place him at Arthur’s side. He had told her to do so. But Freya had torn rosemary leaves out of her crown and thrown them in Gwaine’s face, crying out that she wasn’t going to let him waste what little he had achieved by joining a war like that. She had told Gwaine those slaughters were creating monstrous ghosts, too vibrant and wrathful for Gwaine to meet them in the state he was. So she hadn’t allowed him to go back, not that way.

Now that he was effectively back, from time to time Gwaine had, in fact, found himself near old war posts from the Forties. The first time he had been haled to stop by an empty concentration camp, he had almost passed out for the onrushes of death and gore. He had thanked his sister for not letting him go, then. She had been right. Freya was almost always right where he was concerned.

“No, Morgana would have done it anyway. She’s like you, she can’t stand back when bad things happen.”

“I still feel sorry for that. I’m afraid I’m not very good at protecting her.”

“Nah, you shouldn’t. If Freya hasn’t dragged you back to smack you, then it means you’re doing it right.”

Arthur chuckled.

“It sounds like you got smacked often.”

“You wouldn’t fathom how feisty she can be.”

Arthur sat on the floor with a groan, his back resting against the iron railings. He raised his chin to look at Gwaine.

“Seriously, what is the matter with you, Gwaine? I thought I had figured you out, but I see that I was wrong. If it was just your fear of turning out like Morgana that weighed you down, you should have overcome that by now. And if it’s not that, and it wasn’t the ghosts either, then I don’t understand.”

Arthur glanced at him expectantly and Gwaine wondered how he would react if he attempted his umpteenth escape, moving the subject to something else.

He knew he had been pushing his luck for a very long time. Even Freya had tired of it.

Damn it. He was barely drunk enough.

“I used to have…” Gwaine paused and breathed out a sigh. “Feelings of some sorts for Morgana.”

Arthur spat his beer.

“You had _what_?” he gaped.

Gwaine shrugged nonchalantly, staring fixedly at the cigarette between his fingers.

“Feelings. Affection. Interest. Call it what you like.”

“How is that even possible?”

Gwaine sighed heavily and his shoulders slumped. He leaned his head against the brick wall, looking tired even as he smiled. It was a sour expression, a scowl rather than a smile.

“Damned if I know. She should have been just an enemy with a history to me. But she got stuck in my mind and nothing I tried would get her out. And after a while, I started feeling like–”

He faltered. He didn’t know how to say it.

“Feeling what? Finish your sentences for once.”

“Ah, don’t you like a mystery?”

“Spit, you dim-witted idiot!”

Gwaine joined Arthur on the floor, immediately regretting it when the cold cement froze his ass.

“You’re being redundant here, Wart.”

“Call me that again and I’ll punch you for real.”

“It’s either that or ‘princess’, deal with it. And you’re totally going to miss if you try.”

“Won’t.”

“It’s your third beer and you can’t hold it, sure you’ll miss, _princess_.”

Arthur muttered some protest which Gwaine didn’t hear.

He took a drag on his cigarette, smoke itching acridly in his nose.

“It’s like when you look down from some place very high, and you feel the urge to jump down. That’s how it feels when I see Morgana.”

Arthur fell silent, puzzlement in his eyes. He looked at Gwaine with a deep frown and tight lips, and Gwaine was almost tempted to ask him if he knew what he was talking about, that gut-wrenching feeling that hit you when you meet someone, exchange even the briefest of glances, and you know it is going to be important. Pivotal.

But Arthur wasn’t that type of person. He was hot-tempered and headstrong but he had the extraordinary ability to attract goodness. People wanted to prove themselves worthy when they were around Arthur so he couldn’t possibly know what it felt like to look in the eyes of a person and see the abyss and the void inside claiming you.

Arthur and Freya were very much alike. They had fallen in love with Merlin, for crying out loud.

“I’ve never felt like jumping from high places,” Arthur whispered indeed.

Gwaine smiled bitterly and drank some more.

“Of course you haven’t. You aren’t fucking suicidal.”

“And you are?” he asked, earnest.

“I don’t know. Caring about Morgana feels pretty much like a death wish to me, especially when you think about what she did. And not just to me, but to everyone. Even Percival wanted to kill her. I mean, Perce! You’ve met the guy, he wouldn’t hurt a fly if he could help it.”

“Clearly, he cares for flies more than he cares for my sister.”

Gwaine bit his cigarette and let out a puff of smoke.

“You didn’t see how many people actually died at Camlann, Arthur. You weren’t there when we had to count the bodies. They were hundreds, lots of boys that Perce had trained himself. He felt responsible for their deaths.” He sighed and rubbed his palm on his forehead, “Damn, he still feels responsible for mine, even if he couldn’t have done anything about it.”

“But Morgana has changed since then. You know she has changed.”

Gwaine shook his head with his eyes closed.

“See, that’s where you’re wrong. She didn’t change. The person she’s now was always there.”

“And why is this a bad thing?”

Gwaine had never dared to tell Arthur he used to think Morgana wasn’t completely lost. It would have implied talking of Nimueh, of himself. Already as a child, he had known Nimueh’s heart would be her downfall: she used to care too much, so much that grief had made her blind and she had been forced to shield herself behind a wall of cruelty to survive. Morgana had done the same. Gwaine had escaped the same fate only because he hadn’t allowed himself to care about anyone, running from a place to another for years, until Arthur and Merlin had decided he was worth something.

When Gwaine had found out Morgana had risked her life to save her dragon, that hunch had only consolidated. And he had cared, which had led him to a forest, which had led him to his death. Exactly how it had happened to Nimueh before and Morgana after him.

If he had ever voiced those thoughts with Percival, his old friend would have called Morgana a dangerous liability, a ticking bomb, because Percival was honest and Percival was good, and sometimes he missed how complicated things could be. Moreover, Percival wasn’t Arthur, and he hadn’t been in Avalon.

“Because there’s no guarantee she won’t go back to her other self.”

Gwaine hated complicated things. In his experience, complexity called for trouble, and trouble called for pain.

“Yes, there is: I’m not leaving her alone this time. None of us will.”

“You can’t know that will be enough.”

“It was more than enough for you.”

Gwaine frowned and looked silently at his forever king.

“What,” Arthur said, “do you think I’m that blind? You and Morgana are much alike, Gwaine. It’s why you two keep being…” He waved his hand meaningfully. Drunkenly. “ _You_. Weird around each other. I know you see it too.”

“No, you don’t,” Gwaine muttered mulishly, more out of habit than out of actual belief.

“Fine, I don’t,” Arthur petulantly agreed, just to shut him up. “Doesn’t change a thing, though.”

Gwaine bit his lips angrily and threw the butt of his cigarette inside the beer bottle. He wasn’t going to finish it, anyway.

“As you like, my liege. Just don’t tell Morgana, okay? It’s not–”

“Easy,” Arthur finished for him.

“At all.”

Arthur shrugged and complied. He drank the last few sips of the awful mix of beer and tequila.

He had a good stomach to chug that, Gwaine mentally acknowledged. His liver was going to give him Hell, though.

“I suppose I know a thing or two about caring for someone even if you know it’s wrong. But caring is never wrong. It’s the opposite, really.”

Gwaine scoffed.

“You’re talking about homosexuality here, Arthur. You can say it. It’s just a word, it won’t bite.”

“Some time ago it would have.”

“Some time ago people were morons. You can’t choose who you love. You can only decide whether to act or not.”

“It took you long enough to figure that one out.”

Gwaine got up from the floor and stretched, his ass dead frozen. He grinned sarcastically.

“Oh, I did that quite fast. It’s the other part that’s still a work in progress.”

“The part where you do something about it?”

“The part where I can look at myself in the mirror.”

Arthur scoffed, fed up with Gwaine’s embittered antics.

“Gwaine, quit that. You can’t control your heart.”

“I can still try.”

Arthur was following Gwaine back into the flat, stomping his feet to fight off the cold when he stopped dead in his tracks and was hit by a sudden realisation.

“It was her. It was Morgana you were watching.”

Gwaine nodded.

“I wanted to be sure.”

“You can be.”

Gwaine only shrugged, avoiding any ulterior answer.

“I’m going to bed now. You can sleep on the couch.”

He took Arthur’s phone from the kitchen counter and threw it to him. Arthur glaringly missed and the mobile fell on the floor with a chilling crack.

Goodbye and fare thee well to a once perfectly intact screen.

“Fucking bastard!”

“Whatever, you can use mine. Just tell your wife you’re crashing here.”

“Morgana’s off to see her father.”

“I was talking about Merlin, princess.”

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

Morgana had many favourite cafés. She had the one where she usually met with Gwen and now also with Mithian, the uptown coffee shop where she took her morning tea before hitting the office, and the one where she drank spiked coffee with her old friends from her university years while they challenged each other at a game of who was the most successful in the group – Morgana was winning, hands down. Her gals had thrown a _fit_ when they had found out she was still living with her hot flatmate from Cambridge plus his boyfriend. And that she met with the mayor of London on a weekly basis.

She had to admit Leon was exceptionally dashing, so she could see why her friends were so envious, but he wasn’t really her type.

There was also a cosy café with vintage furniture where she would meet with her father when he happened to be in London, and then the noisy, colourful one where she was sitting with Merlin at that moment.

She had her back to the entrance so she had no idea to whom Merlin were waving until she heard a male voice declaring, “You can’t hack the computers of the Agency every time you want to talk to me.”

Morgana paled and Gwaine stiffened as he realised who was sitting in front of Merlin, recognising her rigid posture rather than the cascade of her dark hair.

“ _Merlin._ ”

Her hiss would have been threatening enough, but she also cast Merlin a withering look, and they could all swear the air had grown a little chillier in the café.

Still, the warlock looked absolutely unflappable. Maybe it was the eras of experience he had or knowing even the magic of a queen of Avalon was a step behind his when she was so uprooted and far from her homeland.

Maybe he was just very concerned for his friends and too much invested in their lives.

“You’re both grown-ups, or so I like to think. Just sort it out, so we can go back to our happy lives, thank you very much.”

He stood up from his chair and kept still, a goofy smile on his face, until Gwaine got the hint and took his seat in front of Morgana.

“By the way, I didn’t hack anything this time. It was just pure magic.”

“You fried our computers to buy me a day off?”

Merlin blanched and he faltered.

“Wait, when you say ‘fry’–”

“I mean literally.”

“Oh, shit.”

In another occasion, Morgana would have laughed, but as things stood in that instant, she only wanted to throttle Merlin. She pictured the several types of death she could bestow on him, from the apparently accidental to the blatantly wilful. They were all very graphic.

“Sit back down, Merlin. You’re not leaving.”

Merlin hemmed, shifting his weight from one leg to the other, “Actually, I am. If I fried half of the computers there, it can pose some serious problems.”

Gwaine snorted.

“Half? Mate, not even the coffee machine was spared. What were you thinking?”

Merlin made a terrified grimace.

“Darn it. I really need to fix that.”

“You’d better. Go, I don’t think we’ll kill each other in the next thirty minutes.” Gwaine turned to Morgana and grinned, “And I have plans for tonight, so I won’t be staying long, anyway.”

Morgana offered him a ferally fake smile.

Merlin sighed in relief, “Good. I’ll leave you to it. Just remember you’re in public, Morgana, so you can’t magically set fire to the place.”

“You did it on purpose, didn’t you?” she spat.

“Sure I did. You’re morbidly enamoured with this café, so I know you won’t destroy anything.”

“That is because their black velvet cake is better than mine.”

Gwaine arched a sceptical eyebrow.

“You bake?”

“Shut up.”

Merlin snickered and scurried outside, phone already in his hand, _“I need a favour. Yeah, I might have messed up something… No, that was last week.”_

Morgana sighed, massaging her temples.

“This is a twisted version of The Parent Trap and Merlin and Arthur are playing my children. Again.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about, but the kids have your eyes,” Gwaine laughed. “Arthur’s even got your hair. You look more like brother and sister now that you’re not even related.”

Morgana scoffed.

“Gwaine, The Parent Trap. You must have seen it when you were little. The film with the ginger twins who… whatever. They were played by Lindsay Lohan.”

He frowned, affronted.

“I would remember something with two Lindsay Lohans.”

“She was eleven.”

“Ah, then no.”

The waitress interrupted them to ask for their orders and Gwaine didn’t even try to hide his immediate flirting. Making women swoon came almost like a second nature to him. He gifted the girl with the smuggest of his grins and flipped his hair back with a charming gesture of his hand.

Morgana arched her eyebrows, unimpressed, but the waitress giggled, already charmed. She would probably write her number on a paper napkin and give it to Gwaine. It wouldn’t even be the first time Morgana saw that happening.

“I hope your plans for tonight aren’t jealous,” she deadpanned.

Gwaine smirked.

“Why, are you?”

She threw him such a dirty look that he raised his hands defensively.

“Woah, woah! Sorry. You don’t need to burn me like that, you know?”

“Idiot,” she snarled.

“Tell me something I don’t know.”

Morgana drummed her nails on the table and eyed him haughtily.

The waitress was immediately back with their coffees and Gwaine smiled at her.

“What? Ah, thank you, sweetheart.”

The girl squeaked at his endearment.

Morgana frowned with contempt and assessed her coffee. From the generous quantity of whipped cream in her glass mug, the barista probably thought Gwaine was Morgana’s overly flirty boyfriend and had decided she needed some comforting treat.

She put a spoonful of cream in her mouth. It was sugared.

Definitely a comforting treat.

Gwaine checked the green napkin under his cup and made an amused face before folding it carefully and putting it in the pocket of his leather jacket.

Figures.

Morgana sighed. She decided to cut it short and get away from the café as soon as possible. Then, at home, she would start planning revenge on Merlin, because he had seriously overstepped there.

“If you are here at last, that means you have forgiven me?”

She didn’t mean for it to sound like a question. She mentally kicked herself for that. She knew he had, she knew the rules of Avalon. No one could leave without forgiveness in their hearts because Avalon wouldn’t permit anyone to unleash new or ancient hatreds in the world. Nonetheless, she couldn’t help the doubt from sneaking in.

Gwaine shrugged nonchalantly.

“Six of this, half a dozen of that, my lady.”

“Must you always be so infuriating?”

“I’ve been told it’s part of my charm.”

“The opinion of bar wenches doesn’t count,” she dismissed him.

Gwaine scolded her gleefully, “That’s very un-feminist of you. The opinion of a woman always counts.”

“Not when she’s inebriated.”

“Never had them so drunk they couldn’t think straight. I don’t stoop so low.” Gwaine scratched the stubble on his chin and smirked, “I remember it happening the other way around, though.”

Morgana grimaced behind her coffee.

“Ugh. You’re disgusting.”

“Ah. Finally something we can agree on.”

The humorous smile on Gwaine’s face made her feel cold all of a sudden.

“I’m sorry, what?”

He leaned towards her, elbows still resting on the table. His grin and his vivid eyes weren’t so glamorous now. There was a shadow of the past behind his gaze, and it made her feel faint.

Her stomach lurched.

“I’ve said, we finally have something we can agree on,” he repeated slowly, almost soft.

Morgana put down her coffee and frowned, disconcerted.

“You can’t really believe that.”

“No? Then why do you?”

But Morgana didn’t believe anything. She didn’t know where she stood when speaking of or with Gwaine. He had a way of escaping her every kind of comprehension. Morgana only knew he constantly unsettled her. He just needed to breathe to trouble her.

“Why do you?”

Gwaine shrugged and curled his lip.

“What would you call a man who can’t keep his heart in check?”

Something inside her cracked, and she trembled slightly. She knew her little quiver hadn’t gone unnoticed when Gwaine raised an eyebrow and looked at her meaningfully.

“Human,” she whispered. “I would call him human.”

“You don’t need to be polite, Morgana. You can call on weakness when you see it.”

“Feeling isn’t weakness.”

He grinned. Morgana wished he would stop doing that because it was false and dishonest, and it was scaring her.

“Right. I suppose in my case it’s rather madness. And treason, in-between things.”

She felt herself stiffening.

There was no way for Morgana to apologise for torture. Death was easy, death could be the consequence of rage, of a mistake, of grief. It was final, but it was only an instant, and it wasn’t always cruelty. But she had sought to break Gwaine. Finding out where Merlin and Arthur were going had been only secondary: she had wanted to strip him of his certainties and turn him into a shadow that would look as grim as her, and she had walked past the barriers of his mind, mixing magic with the Nathair venom to grasp directly at his soul with her bare hands.

And she had torn that fragile thing.

Morgana gazed downwards, guilt stinging in her chest. She wasn’t going to remember the trenches, she wasn’t going to hear soldiers screaming in her head. She was going to stay anchored to the present.

“The only treason was mine. What I did to you was beyond torture. I was dead set on breaking you, at whatever cost.”

“Because I was Arthur’s?”

“Because you were you.”

Gwaine hummed, interested.

“Should I consider myself special then?”

“In a very twisted way, you could. I’ve never wanted you to die, I should have stopped as soon as I met those ghosts. I should have seen breaking someone like you would mean death. But I didn’t know how to stop anymore.”

She raised her head to look Gwaine in the eye.

Everything always came back to that sore spot, to the one thing she couldn’t mend. Morgana had stopped hating the starved beast she had once been, but her actions still hurt her. She had destroyed so many pure things. Caused so much pain.

“In another life, I would have done my best to protect you. Instead, I harmed you and I forced you to betray your king. If I could go back in time, I would do things differently.”

She sighed and she murmured something else under her breath, “In another life, I would have listened.”

Gwaine blanched and clenched his jaw as though she had smacked him in the face.

He returned Morgana’s gaze with a look of cautious doubt.

“Would you?”

Yes. No. Probably. _Yes_.

She only stared, mute and silent.

They awkwardly drank the rest of their coffees.

Morgana had never left a place with such haste.

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

Mithian came out of the building with a huge bouquet of red roses in her hands. Her face was dreamy, relaxed in a happy smile as she sank her nose between the petals, inhaling their scent.

Morgana put out her cigarette and walked towards the woman.

“I’ll take a guess here and say Leon,” she smirked.

Mithian tilted her head and tittered with mirth, “Is it really a guess or did you spy on us?”

Morgana took her by the arm and together they walked the street towards the tube station.

“I spied only what was already in plain sight. You haven’t been exactly subtle about how smitten you are with each other.”

Mithian hummed, “Leon’s a good man.”

Morgana agreed.

She was feeling chatty, even a little frivolous. The chilly spring air usually put her in a good mood. It made her forget her lack of sleep and the itching of the three coats of concealer under her eyes.

“And very loyal, and brave,” she added excitedly. “Under the right light, he can also be handsome.”

Mithian gave her a conspiratorial smile.

“He’s been a lot under the right light then.”

Morgana chuckled.

“He’ll probably propose,” Mithian ventured.

“So soon?”

The woman nodded, “He is old-fashioned. I know he’d like us to move in together but he’s not a fan of cohabitation.”

Well, Morgana was not a fan of marriage. She grimaced.

“Are you okay with that?”

Mithian surprised her with the sweetest smile ever. She coddled her bouquet, gazing lovingly at her roses.

“More than okay. I’ve dreamt of this. I used to have a thing for him, you know, back in Camelot,” she said softly. “But his only focuses were the kingdom and Guinevere, so I’ve never indulged too much.”

“Gwen never married after Arthur died. Do you think she and Leon…” Morgana mused.

She had never thought about that. Her curiosity sparked.

Mithian clicked her tongue.

“Who knows. It must have been a very lonely life, for sure. I wouldn’t hold it against them if they had found solace in each other. They had to bear the same pain.”

“If you want, I could ask. I’m sure Merlin knows, anyway. He was always around, sticking his nose in people’s business.”

Mithian shook her head.

“No, please. I like to think Leon and I never fell in love because I was a princess and his family was too far below mine for my father to allow anything between us. Things were just fine with Arthur, but being Leon’s second best is not something I could tolerate. I love him too much.”

Morgana nearly tripped.

“Love?” she blurted out, shocked.

Attraction was easily understandable, Mithian and Leon were undeniably good-looking. Infatuation was evident, they liked each other, Leon gravitated towards Mithian as though she were his special magnet. But love? Was that how love could also look like? A serene escalation of glances and then smiles and then affectionate touches?

Morgana had always associated love with fire, with scorching flames and passion. Arthur and Merlin were a special supernova of frustration, sentiment and blind trust. Even Lancelot and Gwen, who were always so stable, so decorous, shone with sparkling vividness when they were close. Mithian and Leon, on the other hand, simply looked balanced. Mithian was a fire of her own. Leon was her hearth.

Oh.

Mithian was brimming with excitement, eyes luminous.

“Yes. It’s wonderful, isn’t it? In this century you can marry the person you love instead of the one you need. I can marry the man who makes me happy.”

Morgana could only offer her a small smile.

She had never married for love, in any century. But she had been fortunate enough to be truly happy, at least once.

“Yes, it’s wonderful,” she murmured, looking ahead of her.

Mithian nudged her in the ribs.

“Can I ask you something? I mean, I know we’re not exactly friends, but…”

“No, we are not,” Morgana whispered. “But I guess I can always refuse to answer.”

Mithian stared, her enthusiasm dimming.

“Yes, I suppose you can,” she agreed warily.

“Then tell.”

“What is happening between you and Gwaine? Everyone’s very tight-lipped about it but we can see there’s tension. It’s starting to look really bad, Morgana.”

“You know, I don’t think I’ll answer.”

“I’m sorry. I don’t want to intrude, I’m just worried about you.”

Morgana blinked, puzzled.

Mithian was relatively new to the group, and while she couldn’t possibly know how intimate the princess had been with the knights of Camelot and Gwen, surely she and Morgana weren’t close. Not enough for Mithian to care about her.

And Morgana might have been thinking that the Round Table was truly affected by co-dependency when Mithian added, “We all guessed Arthur and Merlin were going to do something about it after they spoke with Lance and Gwen.”

Really, their group of friends was the juvenile version of a pestiferous Italian family. They all had their noses stuck in everybody’s business.

Morgana sighed bitterly.

“They tried. It didn’t go well.”

“What did you do to him that he still can’t forgive you?”

Morgana didn’t even take offence for Mithian presuming it to be her fault. She was right, after all.

“It’s not that easy. He was in Avalon and if my Queen Sister let him go, that means something has gone right. But I don’t know which part hasn’t.”

“You should talk to him.”

“He won’t listen,” Morgana said, and as soon as she pronounced the words, she caught the cold irony of the situation.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Something I hadn’t covered yet because I expected everyone to know it already, but then I decided better safe than sorry: “Highness” is how you would refer to princes and princesses, “Majesty” is the title for kings and queens, while “Grace” is generally used either for non-royal nobles or prominent religious figures.  
> “ _It’s like when you look down from some place very high, and you feel the urge to jump down_ ”: that is precisely what an ‘appel du vide’ is. So here it is, the meaning of the title of this fan fiction in one cheesy declaration.  
> I'm sorry this chapter was boring, I swear that the next one isn't. It definitely isn't.


	11. Greensleeves

Merlin freaking loved being gay.

Women were fine and everything, he had liked one or two now and then, but there was something incredibly special in the touch of another man, in the angles of their hips, in the firmness of a flat chest instead of the curve of a breast.

And then, he had never fallen in love with a girl. He had cared, profoundly and whole-heartedly, he had loved women, but he hadn’t _fallen_.

Merlin was pretty sure he had fallen so deep for Arthur he had reached the centre of the Earth by now. And he just kept falling.

He moaned, face pressed against the pillow as Arthur sucked his earlobe and thrust harder into him. Merlin gripped the bedsheets in his fists, moving his hips to follow Arthur’s hard rhythm.

He liked it that way, when Arthur got really physical and did things to Merlin’s body, kissing and biting as if passion were too strong to keep him considerate. Merlin had enjoyed learning all the little details and touches that would make Arthur snap and lead him to kiss him senselessly until their lips were swollen. It had all been so slow and careful at first, only whispers and caresses and Merlin showing him cautiously how good sex could be.  Being pressed like that between Arthur’s hot body and their soft bed, pure sex instead of tender lovemaking, felt like a conquest. And Gods, he liked that.

He stifled a loud moan in his throat when Arthur shifted, panting against the skin of Merlin’s back, and he moved a hand between his pale legs to stroke Merlin’s cock.

He bit the pillow and rubbed himself against Arthur, following his thrusts, breath coming out in groans.

He felt his muscles clenching involuntarily and his knees shaking, threatening to give out as Arthur came inside him with a hoarse moan. Arthur lasted a little longer, moving inside him until Merlin came in his hand, calling his king’s name.

Arthur fell with his chest against Merlin’s back and held him close, gifting him with soft kisses on the shoulders. They both gave up, crumbling down on the mattress with sore limbs and aching lungs, legs intertwined.

Merlin shivered when Arthur’s lips lingered on the soft spot under his ear, licking the sweat on his skin with his wet tongue.

“I fucking love you,” Arthur muttered against his neck.

Merlin laughed and rolled on his back to face Arthur, sinking his long fingers in his dark hair.

“You’re so gay, Arthur,” he teased him.

Arthur grunted, displeased.

“I’m not the one who’s just got fucked in the arse.”

“No, you’re just the one who’s thrown me on the bed and fucked me.”

Arthur chortled, hoarse.

“You liked that.”

“Shut up, will you?”

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

Morgana had two main addictions in her present life: the first was nicotine, the second was theine.

She was going to make herself a midnight cuppa when she heard Arthur and Merlin talking, and she froze in front of the kitchen door, her hand halfway to the doorknob.

“What did Gwaine tell you?” Merlin whispered.

She heard Arthur’s worried rumble, “I don’t know if I can say it.”

“He’s in love with Morgana, isn’t he?”

Her heart skipped a beat.

“What the Hell, Merlin?”

“I’ve spoken with Gwen. We’ve been suspecting something like that for some time now. He’s…”

A sigh. Morgana could almost picture Merlin shaking his head in defeat.

“He’s too strange around her, even for being Gwaine. It doesn’t add up.”

There was a second pause, and then silence. Morgana stood paralysed in front of the door, insulting whichever of the two men had left it ajar, because now she was trembling, waiting for them to say something more, and she couldn’t leave.

Her brother sighed.

“I don’t know if he’s in love with Morgana. I don’t think so. But there used to be something on his part.”

“Used to? Like in the past? You’re not talking Camelot, are you?”

“I am.”

Merlin hissed a curse and Arthur hummed in response.

“I know, it’s fucked up. I don’t know how to solve this.”

Morgana stepped back, head spinning. She put her hand in front of her mouth, trying to control her shaky breath.

“She was our enemy,” Merlin raved. “She wanted us dead. I’d get it if he felt something now, but back then? It doesn’t make sense.”

“Gwaine never makes sense. He’s Gwaine.”

“And Morgana?”

“I don’t know. We’ve never spoken about him, just like we’ve never spoken about you.”

“Oh,” said Merlin. “ _Oh_ ,” he repeated, with a whole new, crazy sense of understanding.

It was a mess. It was all a gigantic mess and Morgana wanted it to end. If only they would stop talking.

“I don’t know how to help them.”

“I’m afraid it’s not up to you, Arthur. Just give them time.”

“Yes, because it has served them a lot of good until now.”

“Maybe it has.”

Morgana left as quietly as she could and she locked the door of her bedroom before hiding her head under the blankets.

She dreamed of France that night.

She dreamed of Versailles, of the man she had married because he had hated Arthur and Morgana had wanted to be as close as possible to him, to check on his every move.

She dreamed of the goblet of poisoned wine she had drunk during the banquet in order to expose him in front of the entire court. It hadn’t mattered that she would die because of it. The most important thing had been keeping Arthur safe.

She dreamed of the seething pain of the venom flowing down her throat. In her mind, Morgana screamed.

Her vision was gold and bright and the scorching gall in her insides turned into flames which caged her as she dived inside the currents of a poisoned mind.

The venom of the Nathair was stinging on her fingertips and Morgana used all her strengths to sink her hands deeper into Gwaine’s skull.

She was thrown into a throng of people, bloodless faces that stared haughtily at her. They opened their mouths and there was a gaping darkness between their chaffed lips. She saw eyes she recognised, heard voices she remembered.

Those people used to have names, once, loved ones. They used to have a life.

Gwaine knew. He knew and yet he was in Camelot, serving the son of Uther.

It had shocked her, at first.

The murmurs of the ghosts had the power of the thunders, they sang and they cried. They begged, _“Please, remember me.”_

She had no time for them. Morgana whispered her enchantments and their litany turned into a frightening shriek of outrage.

 _Let the mind be eaten away_ , she remembered thinking.

She found a thread and she plucked it. It led her to a road and she ran desperately, following the thin ball of shimmering silk.

There were screams in her head but they weren’t hers anymore: it was rather the sound of a man getting devoured by angry spirits, and those spirits were weeping along with him, hating their cannibal impulses.

At the end of her path, Morgana saw a familiar lake and a boat, and she laughed despite the aching in her throat.

She knew what she needed, at last. Now she only needed to harvest what else she wanted.

Every intake of breath hurt her, burned her nose, torched her lungs. She vomited acid and in her mouth, she could taste iron and blood. It was the poison, the one she had drunk in France.

But she wasn’t in France. She was in the forest, she was in Gwaine’s mind, she was in her own memories.

She was lost.

Morgana let her hands plunge deeper even while the spells charred her tongue and the venom of the Nathair blistered her skin.

She couldn’t give up so soon. She was never going to get a second chance.

She sank beyond the borders of the mind, drowning in the plangent waves of Gwaine’s heart.

Morgana felt the warmth, she felt the courage. She felt the loneliness.

She caught a glimpse of a mirror and there she stopped. She thumped aggressively against the glass surface, causing cracks to spread all over Gwaine’s reflection.

Trapped inside the mirror, the knight yelled in pain but he didn’t beg her to stop.

He had never begged her. He never had.

_So strong._

Gwaine accepted her attack with a look of horror and betrayal in his eyes.

Morgana didn’t understand that. There was nothing in him she could betray: he was the traitor, he was the one who could see the victims of Uther’s massacres and still served under the Pendragon banners nonetheless.

Morgana yelled, striking with a bolt of magic Gwaine’s mirror.

He wailed, he called a foreign name, invoking help, but he didn’t plead. He didn’t yield.

He didn’t beg.

The mirror went into pieces and the shards of glass cut her face and her naked hands, but Morgana smiled victoriously because finally Gwaine’s soul was revealed.

She knelt down and nursed the splendid flame, cradling it against her breast. It felt warm and welcoming, like a gentle hug she had yearned forever to receive.

But the moment the venom steamed away, Morgana would lose that touch, she was sure of it, so she grabbed blindly the flame, unable to see it because of the tears that were streaming from her eyes, and when the flame didn’t burn her, she cried more.

Morgana tried to tear it with her fingers but the fire resisted, so she clawed at it with her nails.

Gwaine’s screams were deafening.

The flames still didn’t burn her.

She had way more power than what was required, but her magic simply wouldn’t answer, as if her own powers were refusing to do her bidding, to hurt that precious soul.

The fire burned so high. It was fighting off the cold in her own bones.

She couldn’t break it.

She hadn’t known it had been so cold inside her.  And now it was melting.

Morgana let go of the soul with a forlorn sob, but the flame dimmed when she released it, and Morgana screamed because _no, no!_

She found herself out of Gwaine’s mind and in front of his body.

He was barely breathing and he was shaking badly. He looked at her, unable to see, and he wheezed, “ _Nimueh_ ”.

Morgana put her hand on his forehead and she knew immediately he wasn’t going to make it.

She had breathed too close to his soul.

She got up, and when she turned she wasn’t in the forest anymore. She was drowning in the water, she was breathing a different air.

Morgana woke up with a startle, a cry strangled in her throat and her breath coming in and going out in fast jerks.

The candles in her room were burning, filling her nostrils with the scent of white musk and dog rose.

She slowed her breathing, staring at the candle flames until all she could see were the orange fire tongues and she extinguished them all as soon as she felt her heartbeat steading.

She looked at the mobile phone she had left on her nightstand. She made a call, praying softly that no one would answer.

“What?” a sleepy voice grunted.

Morgana mouthed mutely, her lips trembling. She didn’t know what to say, exactly.

She was ice cold.

At the other end of the receiver, Gwaine worried.

“Is everything all right? Is it Arthur? Merlin?”

Morgana whispered, nearly delirious, “I didn’t tear it. I broke everything else, but not that. I swear, I didn’t.”

Gwaine groaned, “You’re not making any sense.”

“Can we talk?”

“It’s… goddammit, three in morning, Morgana. Go back to sleep.”

“I can come to your place, just– just tell me where you live,” she said.

He cursed.

“At this hour, alone? You’re gonna get raped.”

“I can defend myself.”

He sighed.

“Sure, and then tomorrow the news will talk about the mysterious death of an unknown fucker and it will be a headache for everyone. Just give me a few minutes, I’ll be there.”

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

It actually took Gwaine twenty-five minutes and by the time he was at her door, Morgana was bordering hysteria.

He probably should have been more concerned by that than by the amount of cleavage her pink dressing gown was showing but he had been woken up in the middle of the night from a very pleasant dream and that surely excused him for not reasoning properly.

“Your brother?” he inquired.

Morgana closed the door and fastened her gown more primly. Pity. Or luckily. He didn’t know. He was still half-asleep. It had been a really long week, which had followed a chronology of other long weeks.

“He’s sleeping and Merlin is too.”

“I’m not worried about Merlin. We could fire cannon balls and he’d still be dead to the world.”

“Not really. He’s not that exhausted in this century.”

“You should tell Arthur to wear him out better, then.”

Morgana made a disgusted face.

“You’re awful.”

Gwaine smirked triumphantly. She already looked a little less tense.

“So they tell me. What happened that couldn’t wait until morning?”

Morgana hugged herself, sucking her lips.

“I… had a dream. I need to talk to you.”

Gwaine’s grin vanished.

“Just to be clear, how much does your dream have to do with my death?”

She shivered.

“Everything. But please, don’t–”

Gwaine moved. For a moment he thought about holding Morgana’s shoulders, but he stopped himself and let his arms fall back along his sides.

“I’m here. Might as well listen to what you have to say.” He sighed, jaded, “But I guess I’ll say what I have to say too. Is that okay?”

Morgana nodded.

“I can make you tea,” she offered, but Gwaine shook his head.

“Nah, it’s better if we just get on with it.”

She paled, which shouldn’t have been possible because her complexion was already moon-white. Morgana looked ill, feverish, and there were deep, dark circles under her eyes which he hadn’t noticed at first. She seemed to be standing on the edge of a breakdown.

Gwaine frowned.

“How long haven’t you been sleeping?” he asked.

“I’ve just told you I had a dream. I was sleeping.”

“How long haven’t you been sleeping well?”

She flinched and turned her back, sparing him one wary glance.

“A while. Would you–” she gestured towards the living room and he followed her silently. He sat on Arthur’s favourite armchair, which made Morgana smile despite her tiredness.

She grabbed her packet of cigarettes from the coffee table and offered him one. Gwaine declined again.

She lit one for herself.

Her fingers were shaking.

“Arthur thinks I’m the reason why you couldn’t let go and leave Avalon.”

“Does he?” Gwaine said, feigning indifference.

Morgana hummed.

“He said it’s because you understood why I was waging war against him and Uther. That you saw the reasons behind my doing.”

“When has he become this talkative? I liked him better before.”

Morgana snorted feebly. The smoke of her cigarette was drawing circles around her lips. For a moment, Gwaine had the hallucinating vision of a crown of smoke circling her head. It disappeared as soon as he blinked.

“I think he’s wrong, though,” Morgana said.

“Uh?”

She shook her head, sucking hard on her lips. Her breath was coming out in short sighs.

“It wasn’t because of that. It’s because of what I did to you and because you didn’t fight it. I went for your soul and you didn’t stop me. I destroyed everything and you allowed me to hold you in my hands. You let me in.”

Morgana stared at him and Gwaine hesitated. He didn’t comprehend what she was mutely asking him, so he answered following only his instinct.

“I thought if you had seen what was inside me, then you would have understood. But I was wrong.”

“You weren’t,” Morgana denied heartily. Feverishly. “I’ve tried to break you, but I couldn’t make it. I had the power to do it, but I couldn’t bring myself to tear your soul apart. It was like… I couldn’t do it,” she whispered, agitated.

Morgana looked like a regal lunatic, with her pink slip and matching dressing gown, her hair a long, messy mantle. She resembled a Gothic princess from some horror movie.

It was terrible.

She smoked her cigarette nervously and blinked to shun the veil of tears from her eyes.

“It was a stupid suicide. You still went after Arthur,” Gwaine commented flatly.

“He was going to die and I needed to be there,” she drawled.

Gwaine frowned.

“You already knew Avalon would not cure him?”

Morgana chuckled mirthlessly.

“I was the last High Priestess. Of course I knew it. Not even the Cup of Life would have healed a wound from a dragon blade. I wanted to watch him die, so I could die too.”

“Why did you want to die? With Arthur gone you could have won,” Gwaine asked, shocked.

Morgana took another drag on her cigarette. Now even her lips were quivering, not only her fingers. He feared she would collapse soon and he had no idea how that made him feel, what he was supposed to do.

“Does it surprise you so much? I had nothing left. Not a home, not my… not Mordred,” she said.

She clung to the hems of her gown and shivered. “Arthur was my everything. My revenge, my purpose. He was all I had left while I was nothing. We needed to die together.”

“Why?”

“Because Pendragons can’t exist in half,” she explained almost unaffectedly, eyes wide open and distant. “I used to think Morgause was mine, that she was the part I was missing, but she wasn’t. She never was, was she?”

Gwaine stiffened uncomfortably and eased out a breath he hadn’t known to be holding.

“I don’t know. I haven’t met your sister.”

“She wasn’t my sister,” Morgana blurted out, just a little too quickly for not sounding utterly miserable. “She called herself that, but Morgause was never a sister. I loved her and she loved me back, but she used that to chain me beside her. That’s not how love’s supposed to work. You– you tried to do the opposite.”

His heart sank.

“Morgana…”

She shook her head and waved her hand, refusing to let him talk. To let him hide.

“It’s true, isn’t it? You saw it. We are the two sides of that same coin. And you are the better half.”

She spoke with desperation glinting in her eyes and… ghosts. Just ghosts. Ghosts all around them, _inside_ them.

Gwaine found the courage – no, the strength – to keep looking directly at her.

“I wouldn’t be so sure about it. Not now, at least. You’ve let go of your darkness.”

“I have,” she confirmed.

“Do you miss it?”

“Being so wrecked by magic I couldn’t even breathe? No.”

Gwaine remembered a moment, a thousand and half years before. He was in his father’s stables and he heard again his mother Anna repeating him that ghosts weren’t scary, that they were, in fact, scared, that if the Goddess had given little Gwaine such gift, he was supposed to use it for a good cause.

His mother had no idea. She had never seen a ghost, she wouldn’t believe him when he told her ghosts didn’t speak: either they sang or they screamed.

Sometimes, Gwaine sang with them.

“And the power?”

“I have more power now than when I was High Priestess. I just don’t use it.”

Gwaine sighed, derisory.

“Ours was a pretty rusty coin.”

Morgana shrugged and she delicately tapped her cigarette on the ashtray.

“It still held a value.”

“No, it didn’t. We understood nothing of what we were doing. We were both too far gone, you in your kind of madness and I in mine. We had no control.”

Morgana stared at him with hollow eyes. She shivered again and she brought her legs to her chest, curling up on herself.

He scowled.

“Why are you shaking so much? It’s warm here.”

“I always get cold when I dream. It’s… harsh, in my head. Like the winter in my fortress.”

Gwaine didn’t bother to check for blankets on the couch, already knowing there wouldn’t be any. Morgana and Arthur’s flat was elegant, always freakishly tidy despite Merlin living with them. It was already a huge concession that Morgana had allowed herself to put an ashtray on the coffee table.

He rose to his feet only to reach Morgana on the sofa. He put his arm around her shoulders, trying to warm her up.

She eyed him strangely, bewildered. They had never touched before, not even by accident. He could see the uncertainty in her face. Still, she allowed him to hold her.

She was soft, a lot more than what he had imagined – and he had imagined plenty – and her scent was dangerously intoxicating.

She was ice cold.

“Gods, you’re freezing. Are you always this cold?”

“Only sometimes,” she murmured.

“When it gets bad?”

Morgana didn’t answer but she huddled up closer to him, desperate for some warmth. He took the cigarette from her fingers and stole the last drag before putting it off. It tasted sweetly of fresh mint and it nauseated him.

“Why did you let me tear you open? You should have never let me so close,” she whispered tormentedly.

Gwaine let out a sigh and closed his eyes. Her shivers resonated with his own stressed heartbeat.

“I used to believe I was in love with you,” he confessed.

Morgana shook her head, sad.

“You can’t fall in love with someone you don’t know.”

“Yeah, it was crazy, I found that out quickly enough,” he quipped sarcastically. “But I recognised something in you. I saw we were similar, both battered and bruised on the inside. And I think I had fallen in love with that, with the woman who was like me. It didn’t matter if I didn’t know you. You looked so much like the part I was missing.”

“I would have crushed you. You should never love someone who would do that to you.”

“I know. It was just a delusion, but it felt real at the time. It surely tormented me as though it were. I recognised so much of myself and of my of family in you, so I thought that even if you were the enemy, there was room for hope. Because you were like me, and Arthur and Merlin had turned me from a vagrant to a knight so I thought it could work the same way for you. If only I could make you stop and talk for a minute…”

He laughed bitterly at his old self for being so blind and stupid.

Morgana made a pained grimace.

“I wouldn’t have listened.”

“I had to think it was possible. Else, I had to admit that I was just plain crazy and that I had fallen for a murderer. Turns out it was exactly it.”

“I’m sorry.”

“You’ve already apologised centuries ago. I haven’t forgotten.”

“Yes, but it’s different. I didn’t mean to hurt you.”

“Well, you surely had a funny way of showing it, my lady.”

Morgana bit her lips and gripped her knees.

Gwaine had often seen Freya sitting like that and it sent a pang of nostalgia down his chest. Gwaine only wanted his little family back, really. And a shred of peace.

He was out of place in that modern world made of guns and televisions. His sister could keep telling him as long as she desired that reincarnating would finally mend his wounds, but she was mistaken in that.

Morgana murmured feebly, “I wanted to break you. That similarity you saw, I clung to it too. But while you wanted to save me, I thought that if I had managed to make you as broken as me, then you would have come to me.”

Gwaine stifled a frustrated growl.

“I was already coming to you.”

He had bared himself completely in one desperate attempt to make her see, even if she had specifically told Eira to target Gwaine, even if Morgana had been torturing him, because that was how much of a fool he could be. That was how mad he had turned because of the ghosts crying for years in front of him.

Morgana covered her face with her hands, drying the tears she didn’t want him to see.

“I saw it when it was too late.”

“For me or for you?”

“For both of us.”

“Then I’m sorry too. Like I said, it was a pointless suicide.”

She inhaled deeply and she glanced back at him, holding lightly to his t-shirt.

“Your sacrifice wasn’t worthless. Arthur and Freya brought me back from the place where I was, she made me forgive who hurt me and he made me forgive myself. They trusted me, but when I came back to life I wanted to prove to you too that I could be something more than a killer, that I wasn’t only a creator of ghosts.”

“The dead have a way of being all equals, Morgana. It doesn’t matter who kills them. In the end, they all look the same.”

“You still see them.”

He nodded with mechanical carelessness.

“I will always see them but I’ve learned how to cut them off now. They can’t touch me as they did once.”

“But they still do.”

“From time to time.”

She was tormenting her lips with her teeth, sucking and biting nervously. Her cheeks were awfully pale.

“What a pair we make,” she sighed.

Gwaine smirked cynically and held Morgana a little tighter. She was slowly getting a bit warmer, only the occasional shiver making her tremble down her spine.

“Rusty coin. Battered and bruised.”

“But we’re not crazy,” she said.

“No, not anymore. Our sister did her job well,” he agreed.

Morgana blinked, astonished, and offered a small smile.

Yes, he had called Freya _their_ sister, not _his_. Theirs. She loved them both, Gwaine and Morgana. Freya was the saint of lost causes, really.

“I miss her,” she told him, wistful.

“I miss her too.”

Morgana hummed and leaned her head on his chest, tired. Gwaine wondered how long she had been going without sleep. It was unlike her to be so worn out, to look so vulnerable. Had Morgana been more herself, she would have never allowed Gwaine to hold her so close, and he would have never dared to try. He wouldn’t even have felt the need to offer any comfort, really. But she was used up and so her hand followed her cheek on his chest, and she clung to him.

“When I took Camelot and I made you fight… do you remember that I ordered you to teach me to disarm an opponent like you did?” she mumbled.

He nodded.

Gwaine remembered achingly well: after spending months thinking of her as a second Nimueh, Morgana had conquered Camelot and he had finally met her in person. Gwaine had found her draped in darkness and void, and he had discarded any semblance of sympathy for her without a second thought.

Then Morgana had summoned him to her rooms. It had made Gwaine sick to his stomach. He hadn’t been afraid, only disgusted. Angry. Then Morgana had surprised him by asking him to teach her his moves with the sword, and he had noticed how scared she truly was, how she wouldn’t even trust her own men to protect her.

She had needed to learn how to defend herself.

It had done something to Gwaine, and even while he had kept fighting her strenuously for all the following years, he had never let go of that strange feeling he had first got, the sense that all Morgana had really needed was protection. From the world. From herself.

It had sparked his interest. His care.

“It saved me,” she revealed.

“Did it now?” he quipped, mildly interested.

She tried to nod, but she actually only rubbed her face against Gwaine’s chest. He frowned disbelievingly. She was almost falling asleep, drained of the agitation that had been keeping her awake until that instant.

He hoped it would help with her dreams.

“Yes. I tested it against Gwen, but it was during one of my lives after Avalon that it saved me. My carriage got assaulted by brigands. It wasn’t like Camelot, in France no one expected a noblewoman to be able to fight, least of all to fight well. So I managed to disarm my attackers and it saved my life.”

“I’m glad of it,” he whispered, and he was surprised to find out he was sincere.

“Are you, really?”

He sighed pensively and there was an obstinate trace of guilt in his words, but Gwaine wasn’t going to think too hard about it at that moment.

“The woman who fought against those brigands wasn’t the same who I battled in Camelot. So yes, I’m glad I was able to help her. To help you.”

“I saved Arthur in that life,” she murmured. “And I would do it again, no matter what,” she added stubbornly.

“I know. I know,” he reassured her, offering a soothing caress on her shoulder.

Morgana shifted, legs slipping under her body, and she closed her eyes, yielding to her exhaustion.

“I would save you too,” she whispered.

An unrequired – undesired – surge of elation choked him. Gwaine swallowed it down and accurately pretended nothing could touch him.

“You don’t need to save me, Morgana.”

“But I would do it,” she reiterated mulishly.

He didn’t know how to answer that, so he only murmured, “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.”

She was drifting off, and he took advantage of the occasion to move a tendril of black curls from her face and caress her cheek. It was cool, smooth.

Soon, her breath evened out and Morgana was sleeping against his chest.

She was really too pale.

Now and again, he had caught the concerned exchange of glances between Arthur, Lancelot and Merlin, and he had known their worries to be revolving around Morgana. He had underestimated the scope of her weariness.

Gwaine sighed, tired himself, and he pondered what to do. He hadn’t expected her sudden call to end up like that. To be honest, he hadn’t really known what to expect. Surely not that.

He felt guilty, even if he knew it wasn’t his fault. Not actively, at least. If their past was eating Morgana out so viciously it was because of her wrongdoings, not his. He was dealing with his own aftermaths.

In a few hours, she was going to regret falling asleep on the couch, Gwaine considered.

He manoeuvred himself carefully, taking Morgana in his arms without waking her up. Thankfully, the door to her bedroom was open and laying her on her bed proved easy enough.

She moaned uncomfortably when he let go of her. Asleep, Morgana reached for his touch. She shivered again, goosebumps covering the skin of her breasts and of her bare legs.

Gwaine covered her with her blankets and made sure she wouldn’t get cold.

He kissed her on her forehead.

“I don’t regret trying to save you. That’s what’s been wrecking me all this time. I can’t regret it, even if it killed me,” he whispered softly.

Morgana tilted her head, following the sound of his voice.

He sighed.

He was tired, and he wouldn’t get home before another half hour.

Oh, fuck that.

He took off his shoes and he lay down on the bed beside her, lying on the bedcovers. Morgana curled up against him and for a moment, Gwaine didn’t care about tomorrows.

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

He woke up when the first sunrays entered the room. Morgana was sleeping soundly, a hand covering her face.

Gwaine cautiously got up and left the bedroom, shoes in his hands. He could tell it was very early, so he gathered he could simply put his trainers back on, leave, and gift himself a couple of days of hard work and training to digest what had transpired between him and Morgana.

However, his brilliant plan was trashed by Arthur who came out of the kitchen at that precise moment with a steaming mug of coffee in his hand, wearing only his underwear and a grey t-shirt.

The man stopped dead in his tracks, staring shell-shocked at Gwaine.

“Did you just come out of my sister’s room?”

Gwaine wasn’t eighteen anymore, he wasn’t having sex with girls in the back of a truck and Arthur wasn’t the angry father of one of those girls. He felt defensive all the same.

“We only talked,” he swore.

His former king stared at him, sceptical.

“In her bedroom.”

“She fell asleep.”

Arthur grinned superciliously.

“Gwaine, I’ve never thought you could be that boring.”

“I’ve never thought Merlin could be a biter.”

Arthur paled a little.

“What?”

Gwaine pointed victoriously at his friend’s bare neck, where a nasty bruise marred his skin.

“Your neck, princess. It’s going to be a pain hiding that.”

Arthur covered the spot with his hand and cursed.

Gwaine grinned, recovering his usual dash: Arthur’s self-consciousness was the ultimate blessing.

He heard a rustling behind him and he turned to see Morgana walking out of her room, half-asleep. She was still sickeningly pale, but her pose looked slightly less tense, her face just a bit softer. She stumbled a little and leaned on the white wooden door.

She stilled when she saw Gwaine, and he caught the exact moment when she remembered the previous night. He was about to say something and excuse himself but Morgana glanced softly at him and she smiled before he could say anything to spoil the quiet of her morning routine.

“Hi, Gwaine. Arthur, does Merlin want coffee?”

“Dunno, he’s still slee–” Arthur caught himself almost immediately. Almost. He blushed.

“Don’t you dare!” he snarled at Gwaine, but it was too late. He was already sniggering.

“You’re _boring_ , princess.”

Morgana ignored them and made a beeline for the kitchen, an exasperated wrinkle blooming between her eyebrows.

“You’ll need a scarf for that lovebite, brother,” she simply acknowledged while passing by Arthur. She didn’t even spare herself a moment to watch him turning comically ashen.

Gwaine heard the noise of mugs and cutlery being taken out of the cupboard.

“You staying for breakfast, Gwaine?” she asked from the kitchen.

He grimaced, embarrassed for what was probably the first time in both his lives.

“I think I should leave.”

“I’ll make pancakes,” she tried to bribe him.

“Come on, Gwaine,” Arthur told him plainly. He moved back a chair from the dining table for him so that he could sit. “It’s not like you have plans, right?”

Gwaine made a strained face. You didn’t really say no to the Pendragons, no matter the place or the century. It was generally ill-advised, especially when they wanted the same thing.

“No, I guess not,” he surrendered.

So he sat next to Arthur and watched Morgana through the open door, studying her carefully as she made breakfast while wearing her silky slip and airy dressing gown, her hair tousled because she still hadn’t brushed it. It looked achingly domestic and frightfully far from what his mornings had looked like in the last five or six years. It was refreshing. It was unreasonably terrifying.

Merlin came into the living room and sat at the wooden table, zombie-like. Without even needing to glance at him, Morgana warned the warlock about his shirt being buttoned wrong.

Gwaine chuckled and Merlin clumsily fixed his shirt.

They ate and they chattered calmly, serenely. As though that were normal, the four of them sitting at the same table and having breakfast together. Natural.

Apparently, Merlin registered the situation only later, when the mugs were already in the dishwasher and Arthur was back in his room getting dressed.

He really wasn’t an early bird, was he.

“Why are you here this early?” the warlock asked Gwaine, suddenly confused.

Morgana cast Gwaine a quick glance and he simply shrugged.

“I fell asleep.”

Bullet. Trigger.

Fire.

Merlin gave him the goofiest of his grins.

“Okay.”

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

Her fingers still smelled of mint and tobacco when Morgana rubbed her hand on her face.

“What is taking them so long? I swear Gwen would be quicker without a hen trying to dress her up.”

“It’s a wedding dress. It can’t be easy putting it on.”

Morgana eyed Mithian sceptically.

“Please, she used to be my servant. She can tie a corset like a pro.”

The other woman chuckled.

“Have you ever considered a career in journalism? Your tongue-lashings would be brilliant.”

“No, numbers are a pain, but I’m okay with them. I’m a bookworm, not a writer.”

“I still find your nerdiness slightly off-character. Arthur’s too. He has this odd English frat boy look, it makes me spit my drink every time he quotes Tolkien.”

“Arthur is so self-celebratory that he thinks his legend inspired Tolkien for Aragorn, that’s why he can quote it by heart. What is really weird here is how Merlin got us all into Dungeons&Dragons.”

Mithian grimaced.

“Please, don’t talk about it. Leon has been studying those handbooks for days, he is dead set on crushing Lancelot’s character.”

“That’s… not how a D&D party should work.”

“Harmless fights bring out his competitiveness.”

Morgana chuckled, “Whatever. My necromancer won’t let him do it. She fancies Lancelot’s ranger.”

“If you kill his character, you will make Leon cry.”

“I can record it for you, if you want. Blackmail material on the mayor can come in handy.”

Mithian tittered snidely.

“Oh, I know. I’ve already got tons of photos and recordings. If he ever cheats on me, his reputation is null.”

Gwen arrived wearing a cream dress with long lace sleeves and an impressive trail covered with tulle roses. They could tell from her perplexed face that she wasn’t pleased.

Mithian hawed pensively, “You look a bit like Lady D. I guess.”

The blonde shop assistant carrying Gwen’ trail beamed.

“Isn’t she beautiful?”

Morgana scowled.

“No, she’s awful. That dress is ugly.”

Gwen put her hands on her hips and scolded her, “Morgana, be nice.”

“I can’t be nice when you’re making my eyes burn. Try on the other one, the white lace dress.”

Gwen groaned dejectedly.

“They are _all_ white with lace.”

“I think Morgana means the cute one with the pearls on the décolletage,” Mithian guessed.

Morgana smiled triumphantly, “That one exactly.”

She gestured to the petite shop assistant, “Go, Tinkerbell. Make my friend try something worthy of a queen.”

“See, now you are being just mean,” Gwen chided her. She turned to the petite woman holding her trail, “It’s nothing personal, she tends to be like this with everyone.”

Morgana scoffed.

“Fine. Sorry, Tinkerbell. What was your name again?”

The shop assistant giggled.

“Lizzie. But I like Tinkerbell. I have a fairy with a rainbow tattooed on my shoulder. Do you want to see it?”

Morgana stared superciliously at her.

What was that woman, a human unicorn?

“No, thanks. My friend really needs to find a dress. The groom must get a heart attack when he sees her.”

Gwen chuckled and gathered the skirt in her hands.

“I was hoping Lancelot would survive at least until the wedding night.”

Shop-assistant-Lizzie-the-Unicorn shrieked.

“Lancelot, his name is Lancelot? And you are Guinevere? Oh, this is so romantic! It’s like you were already destined to fall in love.”

Mithian laughed so hard her laughter echoed in the shop.

“Yes, tell that to the best man,” Morgana grinned ironically.

“Why?”

“Arthur is Gwen’s ex-husband.”

“And gay for his Merlin,” Mithian added.

Lizzie the Unicorn squeaked, hand to her heart, “Oh my God! Are you serious?”

Gwen nodded tiredly and she eyed Morgana and Mithian, “Was that really necessary?”

Morgana shrugged flippantly.

“Tinkerbell needs all the information to help you find the perfect dress.”

The shop assistant nodded enthusiastically.

“It’s true! Now I know exactly what to show you. You should have told me sooner. I mean, _Lancelot and Guinevere_! And an Arthur as the best man!”

Morgana snorted. ‘An’ Arthur. Like, Arthur whatsoever. Not a living legend.

She was still cackling when Gwen and Lizzie the Unicorn disappeared behind the changing rooms.

Mithian dried her eyes, wet for laughing too hard. Morgana was helping her to wipe away the mascara from her cheeks when Mithian asked her, “So, are you gonna take a plus one?”

Morgana bit the inside of her cheek, thoughtful.

“Actually, I was thinking of adopting a cat. If it’s cute enough I might take it to the wedding.”

“Isn’t Merlin allergic to cats?”

“It’s his problem, not mine.”

Mithian laughed.

“This feels so much like when we were children. You were obsessed with cats.”

Morgana frowned, alert.

“How would you know?”

Mithian blinked, confused.

“Don’t you remember?”

“I don’t know what I should remember.”

“We knew each other as children. My mother was a good friend of lady Vivienne and Gorlois, she made us spend all summers together until your father died.”

Morgana sucked her lips, troubled. She had no recollection of the sorts.

“I have very vague memories of my first childhood,” she explained. “I remember only bits and pieces. I didn’t know we were friends. Supposedly. This…” she paused. “This is actually the first time I can even remember my father’s face.”

“Oh. But I thought–”

“No,” Morgana interrupted her. “Daddy isn’t Gorlois. He has no idea that Camelot was more than a legend.”

“Are you sure? I mean, apart from those of us who were in Avalon, no one has ever remembered before. Can’t that be the case with your father too?”

Morgana inhaled and opened her mouth to answer but she stopped herself.

She wasn’t completely sure. Not really. If Freya had managed to link Mag Mell with Avalon and the Underworld as they had planned to do centuries ago, then the possibility of her father being Gorlois’s reincarnation wasn’t too farfetched. She didn’t remember enough of her first father to be certain.

Mithian took her hand.

“Anyway, I wanted to tell you that I’m happy we’ve met again like this. I trust you, Morgana, and it’s not because Gwen and Arthur do too. I can decide what to think and how to live my life without them giving me guidelines. I trust you because I remember you as a child, and you were too spirited to let any sorceress kill you, even if the sorceress is none but yourself. I think you should know it.”

Morgana gulped down the knot in her throat.

“Thank you.”

Mithian smiled and Morgana felt compelled to add something. Tit for tat, although in a good way.

“I… I know you told me you didn’t want to know If Leon had ever had feelings for Gwen.”

“Indeed, I don’t want to know,” Mithian said, jittery.

“I inquired anyway, and it is true. They were both lonely, so they kept each other company. You see, Gwen’s husband had died, and your father had already told Leon his lineage was not noble enough to marry a princess.”

Mithian gaped.

“Are you… are you serious?”

Morgana smiled knowingly.

“Destiny has a way of setting things right,” she said.

Lizzie The Unicorn called from the changing room, excited.

“Gals! I think we have a winner here!”

Mithian cried back, “I thought that would be the groom!”

“No, this is so much better! I mean, Gwen here has shown pictures and he’s a jewel, but this dress!” Lizzie The Unicorn squeaked dreamily while lifting the curtain of the changing room.

Morgana glared. Unicorn Lady was _hopping_. Ugh.

Gwen came out of the dressing room and Mithian gasped.

It wasn’t the model Morgana had pointed out: the wedding dress Gwen was wearing was satiny, with lace and pearls on the bodice, and a flounced skirt. It was puffy and princess- _esque_ , and Gwen had never looked so beautiful and happy.

“Oh my God.”

Mithian urged Gwen to look at herself in the mirror, teary-eyed.

“You look better than a queen. We should find you a crown. Morgana, we need to find her a crown!”

The shop assistant exulted, “She looks gorgeous!”

Gwen laughed shakily, staring at her reflection, and she sniffed. She twirled and the skirt moved elegantly with her, light and airy.

“I do, don’t I?”

Morgana hugged her.

“You’re perfect.”

Gwen smiled, touched. She whispered in Morgana’s ear, “I’m glad you’ll be at my wedding.”

To be honest, that would not be the first time Morgana would attend Gwen’s wedding, not even the first time she would see her marry Lancelot. But everything was different now because her friend knew who she and Morgana truly were.

“I am too.”

She broke their hug before she could get too emotional. She wasn’t wearing waterproof make-up, and the last thing she wanted was smearing Gwen’s perfect dress with black teardrops.

She patted approvingly the shop assistant’s back.

“Well, Tinkerbell, good job. I do believe in fairies, I do, I do,” she quipped.

Lizzie the Unicorn laughed.

“I’ve got that quote tattooed on my other shoulder, you know?”

Mithian took the little lady by the arm and pushed her cheerfully towards the changing rooms.

“Okay, now you really have to show me! I’ve wanted to get a tattoo since forever and I’m a sucker for Peter Pan.”

Gwen heard them and she laughed, stardust and happiness in her eyes, and oh, what was that black indenture inside Morgana’s chest?

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

Against Arthur’s will and her own better judgment, Morgana flew to America just a fortnight later.

The day she came back to England, she told no one. She called a cab, but she was so shaken the driver had to ask her twice where she needed to go. She told him. The man rather offered to take her to the nearest hospital, worried by her ghastly pallor. Morgana shook her head.

“I have to go home.”

“You sure ma’am?”

“Please,” she whispered.

A couple of hours later, Gwaine called Arthur to let him know Morgana was with him, that she was safe, and that she was going to be fine. He promised. Fine.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is the only one whose title has nothing to do with the tv-show or the Arthurian legends. So sorry, I couldn’t think of anything Camelot-related that would fit as perfectly. I really love that song, especially the version by [Loreena McKennitt](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jDLuW9svr3Y).  
> Usual trivia: in some versions (I think in the _Matter of France_ ) Morgana had a thing for Lancelot, and she imprisoned him and tried to seduce him quite often. It never worked, though, because Lancelot was too in love with Guinevere. So yeah, subtle hint with D&D there.  
> I’m not even sorry for turning half of the Round Table into nerds. I mean, ‘nerd culture’ is becoming pretty mainstream after all, so I guess in a couple of years it will become fairly common for people to quote sci-fi movies and play Final Fantasy. And by now, the chapters of this fan fiction have surpassed our present time by a decade and are set in the future. We are, more or less, in 2028.  
> The Merthur sex scene is so gratuitous it hurts my eyes but I felt like the boys deserved some fun. God knows the next chapter will be full of straight people having it their way. Fucking finally, I might add.  
> Also. You're probably not gonna like this, but I might need to pause the posting for a couple of weeks because so far I've had zero time to write the last two chapters and I feel like it's better if you won't have any break during the last part of this story. Sorry about that. If you want news just subscribe or keep checking on Mondays - 'though I'm posting this on Tuesday right now. Sorry about this too. It's been a crazy day. Under multiple perspectives. I think I'm gonna curl under my duvet and cry now. Thanks.


	12. The Questing Beast

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi guys, did you miss me?  
> Probably not, but my life is sad and dull so just pretend that you did. I'm sorry it took me so long, but I hope this new update - and the future ones - will make up for the lost time.  
> The Questing Beast (or Glatisant) of the title doesn’t actually refer to the creature we saw in the tv-show but rather to the legendary one: the Arthurian Glatisant was a mythical monster born of a princess who slept with a devil because he promised her that if she did, her brother, after whom she lusted, would love her back. In the legends, King Arthur learns of the existence of the Glatisant after he had a prophetic dream about Mordred and the destruction he would cause.  
> The Glatisant generally symbolises chaos, violence, destruction and incest, and I thought it would be a nice metaphor for the struggle Morgana is experiencing, except this time, we have found a knight who can defeat the beast, haven’t we? *wiggle wiggle*

She was crouching on the sofa with mascara tears scoring her cheeks.

After two days, Gwaine had only managed to fix Morgana up enough for work, mostly because she was the first one who refused to seclude herself in his flat, but after that, he accomplished nothing more: he took her to her office in the mornings and in the evenings he came back home to find her staring at things which lived in the air and in curls of smoke, things that he couldn’t see. It scared the life out of him. Usually, it was Gwaine who saw and the people around him who were blissfully blind.

It was unsettling, and it was frightening. He didn’t know to what kind of ghosts Morgana was speaking, and he didn’t know if he wanted to find out.

“Fuck this, I can’t do it,” he blurted out, kicking the door shut.

Morgana startled and glanced at him with a frown that morphed her face only by half. She was too apathetic to feel anything wholly those days. It was a miracle she was already feeling by halves, really.

“Do what?”

Gwaine scowled.

“Help you. It’s been a week and you’re still walking around like some kind of zombie. Clearly, I’m doing it wrong.”

“I’m sorry,” she whispered flatly.

He noticed her attempt at remorse, but it was only that: an attempt.

“And here it goes. Why would you feel sorry, because you’re a mess? I can’t really hold it against you, now can I?”

Gwaine made a face which was supposed to be a reassuring smile but only turned out to be a painful grimace. She answered with the same tired expression and Gwaine felt his insides churning.

That living shadow wearing moribund stains of perfume wasn’t Morgana. The real Morgana had gone away, and he didn’t know how to bring her back, to put the soul inside the small body that had been occupying his house for the last week.

Her eyes watered and she sneered cynically, “We both suck at being stable.”

He sat on the couch with her and caressed her face. Morgana leaned against him with the survival-prompted intimacy they had developed during the last few days. Touch was the thin rope which tethered them both and gave them comfort: Morgana felt less lonely when he was near and Gwaine felt more useful when she relaxed around him, as if his presence could cure her. It didn’t, he knew as much, but sometimes life was also made of illusions.

Morgana was getting cold again, even without having dreams, and the designer clothes she kept wearing complimented her slim figure and all, but they were far from warm. Gwaine sighed and held her close, rubbing his hands on her back.

“That we do. But you need to react, Morgana, and I don’t know how to help you with that.”

She paled, already suspecting what his next words would be.

“Don’t make me go back to Arthur.”

“He’s worried sick. You know he can help you. Just talk to him,” he reasoned.

“I cannot see him now. Not until– no. Please.”

“Then what do we do?”

“I don’t know,” Morgana said softly, shakily. She wasn’t crying, so at least that was still under control.

Gwaine didn’t know exactly why or when he and Morgana had become a ‘we’. It had probably happened somewhere between the third time he had driven her to work and the evening he had found her crying under the shower. She had looked so fragile, so desperate. He had covered her with his robe, dried her hair as best as he could, and they had fallen asleep together on his bed, Morgana clinging to him as though she were drowning in the bedsheets and only he could keep her afloat. When they had woken up the following morning, something in their fingertips and their breaths had changed. “ _He didn’t deserve it,_ ” she had whispered then, and he had held her and kissed her forehead, caressing her shoulders until she had fallen asleep again.

An epiphany was threatening to hit him in the head but Gwaine was a master at keeping his thoughts neatly boxed in a corner. He pushed anything close to realisation far, far away into the future, and he kissed the crown of her head.

“I could take you to your father,” he mused. “I know you’re close. Would it help?”

Morgana shook her head.

“It’s too far and I need to go to work.”

“Call in sick. If they’ve seen your face these days, they’ll believe you. I’ll drive you home.”

She sucked her lips and shivered. She was probably coming down with a fever. Gwaine didn’t have any tablets at home. He didn’t even know if there was a chemist’s close by, he had never needed one.

“It’ll take an entire day,” she sighed.

Gwaine didn’t see where the problem was.

“Then I’ll take the day off. Just… this is something I can do. I’m not our sister, I don’t know how to take care of you. But I can take you to someone who does. If you don’t feel like seeing Arthur, then your father is probably the best choice.”

Morgana rubbed a hand on her cheeks, trying to wipe away the black traces of mascara, but she only worsened the situation, smudging all her pale skin with dark stripes. She looked like a dying skeleton princess, and it made Gwaine hurt. Morgana was supposed to be strong, to be cutting and cruel, stubborn. He didn’t know how to revive her, he didn’t know what she needed. He didn’t know _her_.

“Okay,” she whispered.

He let out a relieved sigh and kissed her temple.

“Good. Call your father and then get under the shower. You stink of cigarettes,” he teased her.

“You smoke too.”

“Not that kind of shite. Your cigarettes make me feel like puking.”

She scoffed and he chuckled softly.

“Seriously, my lady. You stop smoking that trash or I won’t come anywhere near you.”

Morgana snorted, “Who says I want you near me?”

And really, it was hilarious, because she was still clinging to the hems of his shirt as she said that, and he still had an arm around her waist.

It was also sad.

So the next morning Gwaine went to her flat, using her key to open the double locks on the door. He packed up her things and put them neatly in a case he found under her bed. He also left a note on the fridge for Arthur and Merlin to let them know that he had passed by and that Morgana and he were handling it, that he was keeping true to his promise of taking care of her. He kinda was, in the way he could.

He drove for all six hours without ever complaining, only chatting about shallow things which would prevent Morgana from falling too deep into herself. He often shot her concerned glances that riled her up, which was a nice variation from the grey apathy she had shown during the previous days after the first rush of despair had quelled. She looked more like herself when she chided him and told him to quit the parental act. She added that he couldn’t compete with her father, anyway.

Gwaine almost stole a smile from her. Twice. It made him feel a little more hopeful when she grabbed her bag and walked into her father’s house.

He stirred his car without looking back, turning up the volume of his radio so much that it positively confounded him.

Two hours later Morgana texted him.

_‘Thank you.’_

He had never thought he could cry over something so simple.

It was stupid, really. He was really, really stupid.

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

He knew better than checking his phone.

Still, he had been sent to Belgium when Morgana texted him again, and Gwaine had no chance to see her brief message and answer her until ten long days had passed.

He regretted it. He wondered if she deemed him rude. If she believed he didn’t care.

When he finally returned home, his house didn’t smell of closed rooms and stuffy air as it usually did when he left for several days, and there was a copy of his favourite Asimov’s book on the kitchen table, the one he had told Morgana he had forgotten somewhere while he was on a school trip and he had never remembered to buy again.

He guessed she didn’t consider him rude.

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

The club smelled of sweat and alcoholic euphoria, and by the way Morgana was picking at her green lace sleeves, her dress was making her itchy.

Checking on his friends from the bar, Gwaine laughed at Arthur’s clumsy attempt at dancing and he watched Merlin smiling at his hopelessness before he gently guided him out of the dancefloor. As soon as her brother abandoned the protective wing around Morgana, a chap grabbed her by the hips. The lad had been eyeing at her for the past fifteen minutes, clearly waiting for a chance to dance with her. Gwaine saw her flinch and she was already moving her leg to kick the stranger away, but Percival proved quicker and shoved the young man. Perce's built was more than sufficient to quell any protest. Morgana relaxed and so did Gwaine. She offered Percival a strained thank you smile without looking directly at him.

Lately, things had been improving between them: Morgana and Percival were past being coldly civil and sometimes they managed to talk for more than seven minutes without throwing in insults. And really, insults were their thing, like the numerous nerdy references were Merlin and Arthur’s.

It helped that Percival had recently returned from a six-month mission in Egypt – a mission which had made Gwaine lose his sleep for more than a few weeks – and Morgana had phoned the lieutenant in the middle of the night on a number neither she nor Elyan should have known, but Elyan still had it registered in his book and Morgana’s panicked voice had pressured him to give it to her. Gwaine knew because he had been with Elyan that night and had told his friend to fuck clearance and just give the damn number to Morgana.

So she had called Percival and told him to evacuate the post immediately. It had saved his whole platoon.

It didn’t make up for Camlann, but it was something.

Morgana still hadn’t found the guts to talk to Gwaine after she had come back from her father’s and he hadn’t pressured her. After those two text messages, he hadn’t received any ring from her. One day, Morgana had simply taken a train back to London, lit herself a cigarette while waiting for a cab and that had been all. Back to work, back home, back to her friends as if she hadn’t been gone for more than a month between her dramatic trip to the USA, her secret reclusion at Gwaine’s and then the fortnight she had spent with her father. But she had smiled self-consciously as she had caught Gwaine checking on her and her Vodka Sunrise, and she had shaken her head reassuringly. He had shrugged apologetically and ordered a drink for himself, pacified.

They were communicating through gestures and glances now, and that was something too.

Gwaine eyed critically at his now empty glass and thought about asking for a refill, but he never got the chance: Gwen arrived in front of him, grinning wildly, and she caught him by the hand, dragging him towards the dancefloor. She had already miraculously convinced Lancelot to undo three of the buttons of his shirt, and the man was awkwardly waiting for her to resume their dancing, not knowing what to do with his hands and legs without his future wife to support him.

Gwaine laughed and elbowed Elyan, sending him flying against a very blonde, very petite woman: Lizzie, she had introduced herself. _“The Unicorn”_ , Morgana had added, and the two women had laughed, sharing a secret joke. Apparently, Gwen was so enamoured with her wedding dress, she had decided she ought to invite her shop assistant to the wedding, but she had also thought it would be bad form to have her participating without having met her extended, co-dependant family first.

Clearly, Lizzie the Unicorn was in her element, laughing and dancing with a bunch of semi-strangers. And by the way he was glued to her hip, Elyan was into her.

Gwaine scanned the dancefloor, finding at least three people attractive enough to be his type, but his heart wasn’t really into it. And maybe he was also a little tired of strangers who found his dozens of little scars arousing instead of fucking disturbing.

He decided that for one night he would only enjoy himself with his friends. His very enthusiastic, freakishly affectionate friends.

Mithian was thoroughly trashed. The woman was so drunk she was yelling, psyched, and Leon was having a hard time keeping her standing on her own two feet. He probably wasn’t complaining only because Mithian was basically hanging from his neck, outrageously short skirt kept down merely by Leon’s very hands.

They were probably going to cause a little scandal: the mayor of London and his party animal of a girlfriend. Or maybe not, because Elyan always knew where to go in order to have fun and avoid the paparazzi at the same time, so Gwen had surely let him pick the club since she was so determined to get her future husband positively drunk along with all their friends.

Time passed in a breathless, colourful blur of neon lights and warm bodies pressed against one another. At some point, Gwaine had a beer in his hand which he didn’t remember buying, the blonde Unicorn was grabbing his shoulder while leaning on Elyan, and Morgana was laughing against his chest.

Arthur and Merlin had already excused themselves and headed back home as clubbing wasn’t really their idea of fun. Lancelot was so intoxicated he had lost his normal composure and he was kissing Gwen in the middle of the dancefloor, all gentle possessiveness and – Gwaine smirked disbelievingly at that – fully unbuttoned shirt. Well played, Gwen.

He checked at his right side and saw Mithian dancing between Percival and Leon, still drunk but surely soberer than Gwaine. He felt someone pulling at his shirt and he saw Morgana tapping her lips with two fingers. He nodded and took her hand, guiding her away from the dancefloor and then out of the club.

The cool night air hit them and Morgana shivered. She fished her cigarettes out of her purse and offered him one. He refused. The scent of her mint cigarettes had become oddly familiar to him, up to the point he had actually missed their lingering trace in his home, but he still favoured his own classic cigarettes, dry-flavoured and rich.

“Could use a lighter, though.”

Morgana smiled and touched the tip of her burning cigarette with his. He smiled back and inhaled slowly so that his cigarette would lit. He breathed out a puff of smoke towards her face and Morgana crinkled her nose.

“Arse.”

Gwaine chuckled and licked his lips. Perspiration had made some of her otherwise perfect make-up melt around her eyes, and her hair was a soft mess of dark waves and curls. He knew Morgana well enough to be sure that she would recoil if she could see herself at that moment, un-perfect and tousled, but Gwaine had already seen her with bloodshot eyes and wearing a tea-stained blouse. Now, with the smudged eyeliner pooling around her lids and the green lace covering her shoulders, Morgana looked more alive than she ever had.

She was so enticing it hurt.

For one crazy, short-lived moment, he watched her smoke her cigarette and he wished he could throw it away and kiss Morgana on her lipstick-painted mouth. Then he recognised his alcohol-induced craving for what it was and shook the urge out of his head.

He was never going to learn. Gods. Goddess. All of them. Damn.

Morgana shifted her weight from one foot to the other and she grimaced.

“These shoes are killing me. I can’t wait to take them off.”

“Do you want to go home?”

She scoffed and took a vexed drag on her cigarette.

“Oh, I wish I could, but Merlin and Arthur are surely having very loud sex right now and plan to go on all night long.”

Gwaine cackled, “Are we talking about the same Arthur and Merlin?”

“Once, I came home early from the office and I swear I could hear them through the door,” she deadpanned.

“What did you do?”

Morgana grinned.

“I phoned Merlin and told him they had to retreat to their bedroom or face the consequences.”

Gwaine chuckled and shook his head good-naturedly, “Never answer the phone when you’re having sex. I thought our Merlin would know that.”

“A mistake he committed only once. So now I have to wait at least another couple of hours before I can go home safely.” She stretched her legs and moaned, “I only wish I had something to numb my feet.”

“Let me have one last drink and then you can come home with me,” he offered.

Morgana laughed softly, “I thought you would resist until morning, or at least get laid with that sexy blonde. She was eating you with her eyes.”

Gwaine shrugged and enjoyed the last drags of tobacco.

“Guess I could, but I don’t feel like it.”

Morgana tilted her head and hummed. Her lips curled around her cigarette as she bit pensively the filter tip. He saw a thread of soft thoughts running behind her eyes and she smiled ferally, baring her teeth.

“Tired of all the people?”

“Just a tad,” he admitted, unable to fight a strange shiver from running down his spine.

Morgana considered him for a moment before stubbing out her half-smoked cigarette.

“Okay,” she agreed. “One drink, I say goodbye and we go. Our king and warlock can go on fucking until morning if so they wish.”

Gwaine laughed at her brazenness and followed Morgana back into the club. They were both stumbling, she because of her aching feet, Gwaine because of his too many don’t-know-how-many alcoholic mixtures. Morgana requested one last beer for him and a second cocktail for herself. She pushed the glass bottle in his hand and almost tripped when a curly brunette passed her by with a trail of abandoned empty glasses in her hands. Gwaine caught her with his arm and Morgana leaned instinctively onto him, glaring over the drops of her drink which had spilled on her dress. Perhaps Gwaine was more inebriated than what he thought and definitely more selfish than what he ought to be, because he enjoyed the practiced easiness with which Morgana clung to his shoulder even after finding her balance again. Although he was never going to say it aloud, he had missed the small touches they had shared for an entire week, barely a month before. Ah, the glory of past mistakes.

Gwaine grinned and waited for Morgana to plunge quickly into the middle of the dancefloor where Gwen and Lancelot were. She came back in very little time and she chugged the rest of her cocktail with unusual haste.

“Let’s go,” she said, not loud enough for Gwaine to hear her, but he got it anyway.

He spotted Percival easily enough among the crowd of people and he waved at him, pointing at himself and then at the club exit. His friend nodded and waved back, mockingly showing him the salute.

Gwaine had a vague memory of letting Morgana drive back to his flat then – “ _You would steer us into a tree._ ” – while she complained about hating stick-shift, and he knew he had laughed, light-headed and maybe even vertiginous, aware that her bare legs were close to his fingers and that her hand kept brushing involuntarily against his knee when she changed the gear.

He fumbled with his keys, and when he opened the door for Morgana, she rushed inside with a relieved sigh. He immediately heard the distinct thud of her shoes falling on the floor while he dutifully closed the door and locked it twice, and her tired moan shouldn’t have caused Gwaine any hot, raking shiver running from his skull down to his back, but well, he could always blame the alcohol for spinal reflexes.

Or maybe it wasn’t simply that, because Morgana was fairly sober, but her hands were suddenly grabbing Gwaine by his shoulders, and when he turned to check what was wrong with her, she pulled him down, forcing their lips to crash in a blunt, coarse kiss that sent him soaring. Her fingers went to his neck, carding through his hair, and he groped for her hips, hands grabbing her arse and pulling Morgana against him, bodies colliding and touching. She moaned in his mouth when their hips canted, and they were rocking against each other, exhilarated and fully clothed.

Gwaine shoved her against the wall, his body trapping her against the cold surface, and her hand skimmed along his torso before loosening the buttons of his jeans and ending up inside his boxers. Gwaine grunted and bit her bottom lip, sucking it through his teeth as she stroke him with cool fingers and blunt nails.

Morgana tasted of alcohol and mint cigarettes, and the scant scent of her perfume lingering on her neck made his head span. She drove him crazy, just her tongue playing with his mouth and her hand on his cock.

She moaned and rubbed herself against him. Her hand was tormenting him skilfully, and it was way worse and way better than what he had imagined for years. He groaned chokingly in her mouth, and oh, she was _laughing_.

He raised the skirt of her dress and found the hem of her panties. He didn’t bother with teasing her through the wet lace of her underwear: he quickly moved it away, slipping his fingers inside her.

Morgana cried out, electrified, and she panted, “Fuck me.”

She was hot and slick, and the pulsing heat of her sex around his fingers was making him painfully hard, but it was still too soon and he was not that intoxicated.

“Wait a minute. You’re not wet enough,” he tried to say, rasping against her mouth, but Morgana was already turning her back to him, face to the wall, and she slipped out of her underwear, kicking it away.

“I don’t care. Fuck me now,” she whispered breathlessly, and she rubbed herself against his groin and really, he was only human. He lowered his jeans and pants and he thrust inside her, holding her midriff with his arm. He tried to take it slow, to find some direction despite the haze of intoxication, lust and whatever else was burning in his belly, but Morgana urged him to go faster and her wet sex around his cock was the best thing in the world, so he complied. He thrust hard and he thrust fast, Morgana was moaning loudly and he had never had a fuck that crazy, that urgent, and it was almost vulgar, with her heated cries and the sound of their slick bodies melting into each other, but it was also perfect and it got to his head like nothing else before.

Gwaine felt her walls clenching around him, and he was already coming inside her, so he moved his hand between her legs and he touched her until she came with a cry, shuddering with her back pressed against his chest. He rested his forehead against her head to kiss her hair, and oh, that intriguing smell of inebriation, perfume and sex that he was always going to associate with Morgana from that night on, until life itself would shrivel and rot.

She leaned with her hands against the wall, breathless, and he was lightheaded and spent. He knelt behind her and gently held her hips to make her turn. Her legs were shaking and her cheeks were so red he could see her blush despite the lights still being off.

It was a quick thing, really, coming back to his senses: he had imagined and dreamed many a fucking time about being in that position, about kneeling between Morgana’s thighs with her hands sinking in his hair, grabbing and pulling him as he kissed her naked skin and sucked her flesh. He had never been able to stop those hungry fantasies, not when they were alive, not when he was dead, certainly not since that crucial night when he had seen her again and she had kept still between Merlin and Lancelot, fearfully trying to disappear from his sight. His abrasive desires had made him mad at himself. He had felt so unclean. So stupid, so hopeless.

And then Morgana had come to him, and all his fantasies had died out, because she was a pretty shell protecting such ancient griefs and deep wounds, and the extent of her hope and her trust had floored him. He couldn’t have those kinds of dreams about a friend, about someone for whom he truly felt. The dazed perception he had of Morgana had been shattered by days of ill pallor, ugly tears and sharp answers.

Gwaine hadn’t known the woman he had used to fantasise about, but Goddess, did he remember how painfully he had wanted her.

He smiled.

Touches, soft touches. He gifted her rough callouses grazing smooth muscles and tender flesh. Down her legs, on her hips. Gwaine lifted her dress higher up to kiss her navel. He fell in love with the salty taste of her skin.

Her eyes were glowing.

“What are you doing?” she mumbled.

Gwaine smirked wickedly and Morgana moaned, exhausted, “I can’t. I can’t promise to stand if you do it.”

“Lay your back against the wall,” he whispered, and he made her put one leg across his shoulder, kissing her thigh as he did so. “I’ll hold you, don’t worry.”

Her throbbing cunt was right in front of his face and Gwaine was grinning wildly. Morgana was a quivering, warm mess, and he shook the last of his drunkenness from his head, the sound of his own heart pumping the blood through his veins shutting out everything else.

He tasted his own seed between her folds and he licked it away as she moaned and gasped. She was too sensitive and hot, he couldn’t bring her to a climax too fast, else he would hurt her rather than pleasure her, so that time he had the chance to appreciate her slowly, half-vertiginous with the aftermath of his own orgasm. He fingered her cautiously, sucking her swollen sex and savouring with his tongue her wet warmth.

Morgana carded her fingers through his hair, scratching lightly on his scalp, pressing Gwaine harder against her thighs, encouraging him with choked pleas and moans.

He took her easily on the verge of another climax and then he stopped just to elicit a frustrated sigh from her. She grabbed his head and pushed his mouth against her sex, and Gwaine was only happy to oblige, sucking on her clit until she cried out and came again. He tasted her on his tongue, she filled his mouth and his whole senses – her taste, her scent, the sound of her moans, the sight of her shivering limbs and the feel of her skin under his hands.

He couldn’t help gloating a little.

“Now that’s what I call a good job,” he whispered, hoarse.

Morgana panted and her baleful glare wasn’t convincing in the least, not with the way her lips were twitching to contain a smile.

“If you let go I swear I’m gonna fall down, so don’t you dare.”

Gwaine laughed, and he was careful to help her stand straight as he himself stood up. He offered a content, boyish smile.

“Sleep?”

Morgana shook her head, and she sagged against the wall, sighing with her eyes closed.

Gwaine shrugged. “Okay. Let’s get you a drink then.”

He zipped his jeans and went to the kitchen. Morgana readjusted her dress and followed him with wobbly feet. Her panties stayed forgotten on the floor, because who cares, anyway.

In the cluttered alcove of his kitchen – just as crammed with pots, empty mugs and spice jars as it always was – he offered her a glass of water when she refused something stronger, and they shared a quiet cigarette.

He could still feel Morgana’s fingers on his shoulders. It made him yearn for her touch again. He moved his hand near hers on the table and she mindlessly tickled his knuckles with her nails.

She breathed out a small cloud of smoke towards his face before handing him the cigarette back. Petty paybacks.

“Just so you know, I’m on birth control,” she told him.

Gwaine froze on the spot, gobsmacked.

“Fuck. I’m sorry, I didn’t think about that.”

“I’ve figured as much. Don’t worry, I used to forget about it myself. That’s actually the whole point of birth control.”

Gwaine wished her voice wouldn’t sound so burdened by self-deprecation. He winced.

“I’m clean, anyway,” he said. “I swear I always use condoms, I don’t know what I was thinking.”

Morgana smiled and tilted her head, resting her cheek on her hand.

“We weren’t thinking,” she calmed him softly, with just a touch of amenability in her whisper. “And I’m clean too.”

“Good,” he said.

“Good,” she hummed back.

They let the ashes of their cigarette fall.

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

Gwaine didn’t mind the lady loitering next to the traffic light. She was looking around cautiously and the blood which had crystallised on her hair was almost elegant, although in the way the secret love child of Tim Burton and Guillermo del Toro would perceive elegance.

She cast no shadow, a tell-tale clue for which Gwaine had learned to search when he was approximately eleven or twelve. The bloodless complexion and the bruises on her face and her arms were telling enough, but you may never be too sure in a big city like London and those special effects make-up artists had become freakishly skilled. He had gone to a Halloween party when he was sixteen and two girls had totally fooled him, made his blood fecking freeze in his veins. Then they had started making out in front of the liquor cabinet and well, that was rather un-ghostly.

Some days later, he had heard the girls had died in a car accident that very night. He hadn’t known what to make of it for a long time.

Gwaine sent the lady a smile, which startled her.

She vanished in a cloud of smoke and he shrugged. Oh, well. If she was still too shy or scared to talk, he could wait and try again in a few weeks. That specific crossroad was on his commute, anyway.

He stubbed out his cigarette and waved at the man crossing the street.

“Tristan, you old bastard!”

The blonde man grinned and they shook hands.

“Watch it, I’m not old.”

 “Sure, gramps. How was Egypt?”

“Officially, a victory.”

“And officiously?” he teased him.

Tristan beamed, smug.

“Even better.”

Gwaine nodded, satisfied.

“That’s good to hear.”

He had met Tristan and his lady partner during his first and only travel to Mercia. Gwaine had bonded easily with the older man, a little less quickly with Isolde, who kept eyeing him untrustingly. Yet, they had spent a few weeks together and when their paths had parted Gwaine had been fairly sure the bandits had become something akin to friends. Finding them again in his new life had been a pleasant surprise. Discovering they remembered Camelot had felt even better.

Tristan clicked his tongue, impatient.

“So, what did you have to tell me? If you wanted to meet away from the offices, then it must be something interesting.”

“It’s the Round Table.”

Tristan stilled, pale in his face and hands in his pockets. Gwaine could tell he was subtly making sure his gun was in place. Not that he meant to use it: it was just a nervous quirk. Gwaine had a couple of similar suggestive habits and Tristan knew them all. Shoulder to shoulder, blood for blood and all those familiar attitudes of cameratism only Gwaine and Tristan seemed to understand.

“What of it?”

“It’s reunited.”

The man scowled sullenly, “Why should I care?”

“Nah, you can’t fool me, Tris. Tell your lady the knights are back. If she hasn’t changed, and I know for a fact that she hasn’t, she’ll want in.”

“The last time we followed Arthur Pendragon, I lost her. I’m not risking her life again, not even for the damn king that was promised.”

“Last time we were fighting Morgana, Tris. She’s with us now. We won’t let anything happen to you or Isolde.”

“You working with Morgana now? Is it safe?”

Gwaine blinked, and he thought carefully about his answer.

He half-smiled.

“Yeah. Yeah, it’s safe.”

  

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

Lancelot pretended he didn’t notice the way Gwaine’s arm was casually leaning on Morgana’s backseat, but he still smiled inwardly.

They had all heaved a relieved sigh when Morgana had come back – and that truly meant _all_ of them: even Percival had been worried after two weeks had passed and Arthur had still been refusing to talk about his sister – and she had been so adamant in pretending she had never been away in the first place that they had all acted accordingly.

Lancelot knew she had gone to the States, that she had come back only to hide firstly at Gwaine’s and then at her father’s. Merlin had let it slip with him after one very stressful afternoon. Lance had kept the secret, of course, because that was what he did: he kept secrets. He listened to them, hoarded them, and he sheltered them in the most guarded and secure spaces of his mind. Sometimes, he let out crumbles and pieces, specks of dust, when he thought they could help. Not every secret was meant to stay in the shadows forever, after all. He had been desperate to get Percival to understand when he had mentioned to him that Morgana and Arthur had been married once. It hadn’t worked at first, but eventually it had got Percival thinking.

Sometimes, Lancelot still wondered if things would have turned out differently, had he given out Merlin’s secret, back in Camelot. He knew Arthur would have reacted badly in the beginning, but then he would have understood. He was always prone to understanding when it came to Merlin, even if neither of them realised it.

It was funnily exasperating how both Arthur and Merlin would bend around each other, change and adapt for one another, strive to understand someone so different from themselves, and they didn’t even perceive it. It just came naturally to them, moulding themselves and growing so they would fit together like the perfect gears of a clock or a very intricate, stunningly beautiful machine. For some people, that instinctive chemistry took years of misunderstandings, anger and confusion in the making.

He brushed his hand on Gwen’s fingers and she turned her smile to him. Lance quirked his eyebrows meaningfully, tilting his head so slightly only she would catch it. She looked, and her smile turned into a satisfied grin: Morgana was arguing passionately with Leon, clearly irked by whatever it was they were discussing, but her back was leaning comfortably against her chair, and Gwaine’s thumb was moving in such discrete circles on her shoulder that no one had noticed that small detail. Only Lance, who was sitting exactly in front of Morgana and could peek through the dark curtain of her hair.

Gwen giggled and kissed Lancelot on his cheek.

“About damn time,” she whispered in his ear.

Yeah, definitely high time.

Gwaine took a lazy drag on his cigarette and Elyan protested about the small cloud of smoke. Gwaine laughed out some mockery and his eyes casually met with Lancelot’s.

They exchanged a quick, meaningful glance.

They both smiled in silence.

Lance stored away that precious little secret in the special place of his mind.

He felt it wouldn’t take long to come to surface, anyway.

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

What the world knew of Merlin was that he worked for a huge technology colossus. It paid shamefully well and his colleagues adored him because he often brought biscuits and cakes at work.

What only some of his present friends knew was that he was the goddamn emperor of hacking, although they were probably more acquainted with his pseudonym rather than his birth name: Dragonlord. Merlin was incredibly rich in genius but not as much in fantasy.

What the Round Table knew of Merlin was that mixing sorcery with technology had turned him into the most dangerous person in the world, and at some point, Elyan had even suggested making him wear a signal which read ‘Do Not Upset The Badger’. Elyan shared the Pendragons’ _Harry Potter_ -based sense of humour and Merlin’s passive-aggressiveness was a thing of wonder. He was also still trying to make people believe he was a Gryffindor, which was risible.

What Morgana knew of Merlin, though, was that mixing sorcery with technology _and_ Gwaine called for upcoming, mystical trouble.

She found the two men talking in excited whispers, hidden in the guest room that Arthur, Merlin and she had turned into Merlin’s computer den. They had forgotten to turn the lamps on, and the many computer screens were casting blue shadows and odd lights on their faces. Merlin was sitting at his desk, furiously tapping on his keyboard, while Gwaine stood behind him, one hand on the warlock’s shoulder and the other pointing significantly at a detail on the screen.

“ _Yes, yes, I know!_ ”

Morgana clicked the light switch and frowned critically.

“What the Hell are you looking at?”

Merlin jumped in his chair and turned to her direction with a sorry expression on his face.

“Would you believe me if I said it’s the plan of the Apple building?”

Morgana put her hands on her hips, addressing him with her best no-nonsense attitude.

“I think you would already know that building pretty well since you work in there.”

Gwaine shrugged and moved a strand of hair away from his face, “Nah, this is the New York one.”

“Why are you two– wait, do I even want to know?”

Arthur passed by the door at that moment and reminded her casually, “If you don’t know what they’re doing, they can’t convict you for abetment when they’ll question you.”

“Convict?” Morgana shrieked.

Merlin made an apologetic grimace.

“Arthur’s got a point,” he admitted, pained, and Gwaine nodded in agreement.

Morgana grunted and pinched the bridge of her nose, asking herself why she still put up with Merlin and his antics. The young man had only got worse since he and Gwaine had teamed up for technically unknown reasons. _Technically_. They weren’t extremely subtle when they weren’t working for their official bosses and even Lancelot was beginning to lose a tiny bit of his composure when he clattered conspiratorially with Arthur and Leon.

“Do not get arrested, please,” she begged, exasperated rather than concerned.

Gwaine smirked, flipping his hair charmingly.

Smug idiot who was going to get himself killed one day.

“Oh come on, my lady, did you take us for fools?”

Morgana spat through her gritted teeth.

“ _Yes_.”

“You wound me.”

Merlin coughed, “Gwaine… BlackBandit is one of your friends, right?”

“No, why?”

“He is trying to intercept my line.”

Gwaine cursed and Morgana sighed.

“I’m warning you: I’m not going to bring you fruit baskets when you’re in prison.”

Merlin shrugged carelessly without losing sight of a long string of numbers on the closest screen.

“Chocolate bars will do.”

“And porn magazines,” Gwaine added.

“Wouldn’t you like Morgana’s photos better?”

“Nah, then I would start missing her.”

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

They kept telling themselves they were just fucking. A thing Morgana and Gwaine were indeed doing, often and with great and pleasant results.

Never mind the fact that Gwaine had bought an extra toothbrush for the times Morgana ended up spending the night over at his place, or that he had forgotten so many pieces of clothing at Morgana’s that she had emptied one of her drawers only to collect them all in one place.

She could have given them back to him but that thought had never crossed her mind. Her scent didn’t bother Gwaine when he caught it lingering in his bedsheets. He didn’t mind falling asleep with her arms around him. She didn’t feel like a cage. She was more like a buoy, an anchor.

Gwaine crawled on his bed and Morgana licked her lips, stretching her arms like an indolent cat. He hooked his finger under her briefs and he pulled them down with a cheeky smile on his face, looking at every new inch of exposed skin with lazy satisfaction.

Morgana scolded him playfully.

“You think you’re so good at this, don’t you?”

Gwaine shrugged and let her underwear slip past her ankles, down on the floor.

“Never heard anyone complaining,” he said carelessly, moving back over her to suck her neck with soft lips.

Morgana mocked him with a patronising smirk, moans thronging in the back of her throat.

“Women never complain in your face. They do it later with their friends.”

His grin evolved from cheeky to smug and Gwaine quirked a significant eyebrow, leaving her neck alone for a moment.

“What led you to believe I only do this with women?”

Morgana blinked and she paused, shock bolting behind her eyes.

“Smooth, sir Gwaine. Very smooth of you. And strangely unsurprising.”

Gwaine faked a pained grimace.

“Ah, I must be losing my touch,” he regretted, moving his mouth back to her neck. Morgana chuckled and rocked her hips against his groin. He thought he could hear her smirk.

“Let’s hope not, else your conquests would despair.”

“Are you desperate?” he whispered in her ear, kissing the soft spot under her jaw.

“I’m not your conquest,” she laughed mirthfully, and her fingers walked down the ladder of his ribs, scratching lightly along his sides.

“No, I guess not,” he agreed against the column of her throat, sucking red bruises on white skin. It had probably been the other way around since the very start, long before she or Gwaine could understand that any hunt was happening. They had ended up both conquerors and conquered at the same time. They didn’t mind that too much.

Morgana kissed him hungrily as they touched with careful hands and had slow, relaxed sex, the sunlight washing over their bodies in the quiet space of Gwaine’s bedroom.

He slid inside her with the calm easiness of habit, and she arched her back and raised her hips to meet him at every movement, already anticipating the exact pace of his thrusts.

Their first, exciting nights together had turned into lazy mornings, into hushed weekends. Gwaine was learning of a new kind of passion, the one spurred by complicity and comfort rather than restlessness. Morgana took his breath away with her cool hands and spiky remarks, she kept him awake and alert, but she also had a way of touching his scars with lips and fingertips which made Gwaine feel slightly more at ease in his own skin, carefree and perhaps even less lonely. She knew by instinct how to touch him, how not to. She moulded her body and her voice around him with touching lightness.

Morgana had seen the faces of men with punctured lungs, she knew what it felt like to fall into a precipice close to death. She saw the history burned down by the bullets rather than the adrenaline of survival, and she didn’t expect him to share exciting tales of reckless adventures. No, Morgana kissed his white, chewed up scars and feebly asked him to be careful with his life, to remember to come back to his friends.

Gwaine would forever worship her lips for that alone: she was the first to ask him to make it back home instead of prompting him forward.

So he had stopped flirting with strangers and he had grown familiar with the spent warmth of her body after sex, with the tranquil sound of her sleeping breath.

He was sure he had gained way more than what he had lost.

Morgana bit his neck, and the harsh sensation of her teeth closing around his pulse, sucking his skin, made him moan loudly, and hot shivers raked his spine. He pulled back and came on her thighs, muffling his spent cry against her shoulder.

Morgana kissed his forehead and smirked, eyes clouded by the remnants of her own orgasm.

Gwaine collapsed on his bed and dozed off with her fingers combing his hair. She could be so gentle, sometimes. It nearly made him feel as if he deserved her little kindness. Perhaps he did. He wasn’t too sure. He only knew he loved falling asleep with her.

When he woke up, Morgana’s half of the bed was empty but still warm. Gwaine retrieved his boxers from the edge of the mattress and he put them on before leaving his room.

He found her sitting in the kitchen, stark naked while she quietly sipped her tea.

“I made another cup for you,” she informed him plainly, as if she weren’t sitting in his kitchen without a single scrap of clothing to cover her. It was arousing, seeing her undressed and carefree in his home, so comfortable around him that nakedness wasn’t something only confined to sex. He almost regretted putting his underwear on.

He accepted his cup of tea and drank avidly, thirsty.

Morgana giggled and tilted her head towards him, “Does any of our friends know that you bed men?”

“Nah, I don’t like to brag about my sexual experiences. I would put them to shame.”

“They have a couple of lifetimes over you and lived through two sexual revolutions,” she keenly pointed out, stealing a cigarette from the packet he had forgotten on the kitchen table.

“And they have no memory about it,” he quipped with his signature smirk.

He took the cigarette from her fingers and lit it for himself.

“Besides, the bunch of prudes lacks my taste for adventure.”

“You mean your taste for trouble,” she snickered.

Gwaine waggled his eyebrows and leaned against the kitchen counter.

“Are you calling yourself trouble, Morgana?”

She showed him her most disarming smile and retorted affectedly, “You tell me. Do I taste like trouble?”

He laughed. He took her hand and kissed it gallantly.

“You taste exquisite, my lady,” he answered huskily, and Morgana pulled him down for an open-mouthed kiss.

“Vicious love-talker,” she accused him playfully, their lips still touching.

“That wasn’t love-talk, lady Morgana.”

“Oh, I know,” she said, grinning.

She grabbed his wrist and brought his hand to her mouth, stealing only a drag from the cigarette while Gwaine was still holding it in his fingers. Then she stretched her arms, offering a good vision of her pale breasts and the blooming purple bruises on her neck.

She would kick him as soon as she noticed them. And her irritation amused Gwaine, which was why he kept leaving dark lovebites all over her body.

“I’ll go take a shower now,” Morgana said.

Gwaine smirked maliciously.

“Mind if I join you?”

“Actually yes. I have an engagement this afternoon and I don’t want to run late.”

Gwaine pouted ostentatiously and Morgana smacked him on the forehead.

“You’re mean!” he accused her while she walked to the bathroom.

He heard the click of the door being locked.

“I’ll tell my sister you’re misusing me!”

“ _She’s my sister too, dumbass!_ ”

Gwaine guffawed and shook his head. The water started running and he was tempted to open the kitchen tap just to spite Morgana. He already had his hand on it when her phone went off, distracting him.

He checked who the caller was.

Uh.

“Hi, you’ve reached Morgana’s. Please, leave a message,” he greeted merrily.

The man at the other end of the line snorted gracelessly, amused.

“I didn’t know my daughter had a living voicemail.”

“It’s a really good job and she’s a very convincing woman,” Gwaine joked.

“That she is. So, are you her boyfriend or what?”

Ah. That was the precise moment when Gwaine realised he hadn’t planned the thing through.

“Uhm.”

“I’ll go with the what. Are you having sex with her?”

He _really_ hadn’t planned the thing through.

“I plead the fifth.”

“You’re not American,” the man dismissed him.

“You can’t know.”

“You sound Irish. I’ll take a guess and say Dublin.”

Gwaine raised an eyebrow at that, even though the caller couldn’t see it. He knew his accent was hardly perceivable. A rhythm rather than a lilt.

“Sir, you are a very remarkable man.”

Morgana’s father snorted again.

“So, mysterious man who’s shagging my daughter, tell my little girl my plane is an hour late.”

“Will do,” Gwaine promptly complied.

“Oh, and just so you know: if you hurt my daughter, I’ll find you,” the man said in a frightfully gleeful voice. “And then I’ll kill you.”

Bit of a problem there: if he ever hurt Morgana, Gwaine was dead sure Arthur would have his balls. Immediately. And then he would give them to Merlin, who would perform some awful voodoo and Gwaine would die the most atrocious death ever. That, and Lancelot would stab him. Repeatedly. He or Gwen. Leon would probably have a couple of very creative things in his mind too, because Mithian was teaching him how to be a nasty little shit. And then Gwaine would end up in Avalon again, and Freya would murder him for good, the Rosemary be damned.

Oh, well.

“If that happens, you’ll find yourself and the end of a very long line, sir.”

“There won’t be any line if I get to you first.”

Gwaine was never picking up Morgana’s phone again. Nah-ah.

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

Morgana learned that Gwaine talked in his sleep.

It didn’t happen very often, he was the type of person who managed to stay on guard even when it should have been impossible; but he would mumble and bite words when he came back from places which scarred him in invisible corners of his body.

Those times, he clung a little harder to Morgana when they had sex, kissed her more fiercely. She always responded with equal passion. She wasn’t going to let him feel like he had to slay beasts on his own.

The first time he whispered her name in his sleep, she had to fight the urge to wake him up with a fervent kiss. Instead, she moved closer to his chest and caressed him with her fingertips until his shoulders relaxed and his arm found its place around her waist.

Pressed against the warmth of his body, she chanted soft spells to guard his dreams, slipping inside his conscience to shield him from his fears. It was a path she had already walked, after all.

Morgana saw blood in his mind, which she had already expected, and ghosts with her face, which she hadn’t.

He was afraid of her dying. He was afraid of her bleeding.

It made her heart skip a beat.

“I am stronger than that,” she whispered to his dark places. “You won’t lose anyone anymore. And I won’t either.”

She fell asleep in that oneiric trance, and for one night they shared a dream of a Camelot that might have been, an Albion where they were both careless and free and surrounded by love.

They saw Ygraine smiling alongside Uther at Arthur’s coronation. Nimueh was standing at Morgana’s side, clapping her hands for the Pendragon prince, and Gwaine had the blue cloak of Tintagel on his shoulders.

Later, he kissed her in an alcove outside the banquet hall and Morgana protested half-heartedly, “What if someone sees us?”

Gwaine laughed, drunk with the taste of her mouth and the touch of her hands – protesting, protesting, and yet she was still caressing him, letting him do whatever he wanted and what she desired because dreams are powerful, dreams are liberating, and dreams are infinite.

“Then your father will make me marry you.”

Morgana snickered, “Would you?”

“Yes. Would you?”

“What?”

And it was a dream. They felt it, they knew it. Morgana and Gwaine were two people sharing a bed, indulging in a night illusion of grandness and peace, and when a manservant passed by, they knew nothing would really happen because _it’s only a dream_. But they still hid in the tight shadows of their niche, Morgana’s hands grabbing Gwaine by the heavy brooch under his throat, and he whispered hoarsely in the shell of her ear, “Would you marry me?”

She laughed.

Unreal.

Dreams.

Free.

“Yes.”

“You would?” he asked, surprised.

“If you ask nicely.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Shallalala sexy times~ I regret nothiiiiing~  
> Further trivia: “love-talker” is one of the names for the Gancanagh, a male fairy from the Gaelic tradition. He’s basically a lethal womanizer and one of my favourite Folks alongside Leanan Sidhe. According to tradition, the poor women who have intercourse with the Gancanagh die craving more.  
> In this fan fiction, Gwaine comes from Dublin because so does Eoin Macken – or I think he’s a Dubliner. Somewhere around the capital, anyway.  
> I think you should also know that Eoin Macken is such a great human being that he bumped into a tree with his horse while filming an episode of Merlin. Which doesn’t surprise me too much. So the “You would steer us into a tree” line is an actual tribute to how much of a dork he can be.


	13. Lady Ragnell

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I feel the need to point out that in real life love doesn’t cure you. In fact, it helps a lot, but finding your One-True-Love won’t heal you from PTSD, alcoholism or whatever else is affecting you.  
> This is a fictional story, with fictional characters, and while there were no spell duels or potions, magic has been an essential part of this story: Morgana and Gwaine, much like Merlin and Arthur, complete each other in the way only magical things can. The balance one gets from the other works because they are fictional characters who are literally _destined_ to do good. They had centuries to overcome the pain they had inflicted and/or suffered and yet the damage Gwaine had gone through because of Morgana – and himself, let’s be honest – was still hindering him from leaving Avalon.  
>  In real life we don’t have centuries. We don’t have magical islands where we can heal. If someone hurts you this bad, you don’t wait for them to prove they can be good people: you leave, and you take care of yourself, and you focus on healing, because life is so short, and we deserve to live it. We don’t cling to self-destructive habits because that’s where they will eventually lead us: self-destruction.

Leon was grumbling profanities with his face hidden between his arm and Gwaine’s couch.

Gwaine laughed and clinked his spoon against his tin travel mug.

“Rise and shine, Mr President. And go grab my mail or you’re not having any breakfast.”

Leon groaned angrily and threw a cushion at him, whimpering when the sunlight pierced his eyes.

“You’re loud,” he drawled.

Gwaine smirked outrageously and cackled.

“That I am, but not in the way you’re thinking.”

“Gwaine!” Leon grunted, incensed.

Gwaine laughed again.

“You’re just hangover. Come on, the postman’s waiting. Earn your food.”

He sent Leon stumbling downstairs and for a moment he regretted not being able to film the postman’s face when the mayor of London arrived to grab the mail with his hair all tousled and wearing crumpled evening clothes.

Leon came back begging for coffee, two envelopes and a little black package in his hands.

Gwaine handed him a steaming mug and a plate full of greasy bacon and scrambled eggs, “Good boy. You’ve deserved this.”

Leon eyed him. He wasn’t used to being hangover so he was especially cranky. That was probably the first time since his university years that he had ended up so drunk he had to crash at someone else’s place.

“I will murder you in your sleep if you don’t tone it down.”

“You’re such a spoilsport, Leon.”

Gwaine sat down at the kitchen table to drink his own coffee, checking mindlessly the letters. A bill, an advertisement leaflet… he added a generous spoonful of sugar in his coffee and checked the plastic black package.

He laughed like a madman when he opened it: inside there was a dark grey t-shirt which said in bold, capital letters, ‘ _I play for both teams’_.

“Brilliant,” he laughed and he showed it to Leon.

His very composed, very tired friend, blanched.

“You can’t really wear that,” he forbid him.

“Why not?”

“Because!” Leon said, as if that would explain everything.

Gwaine brushed him off, gleeful.

“Our male king is shagging our male warlock. We’re not in Camelot anymore, Toto.”

Leon grimaced, rubbing his temples.

“I’m the mayor of London, would you just cut it with the nicknames?”

“But they’re fun, Goldilocks,” Gwaine smirked as if _that_ explained everything. “And you don’t have to wear that stick up your arse all the time just because people know you.”

Leon decided to ignore him.

“Anyway, they aren’t advertising it.”

“Because the princess is a prude and Merlin is obsessed with privacy.”

“Besides, it’s not even true,” Leon continued unflaggingly, drinking his coffee with an air of a professional migraine.

Gwaine waggled his eyebrows and eyed him meaningfully, a blinding grin plastered on his face.

Leon blanched and put his head in his hands.

“Good Lord, it _is_ true!” he gaped, “I’m never going to share a locker room with you.”

“You share it with Arthur.”

“Because I’m not his type!”

Gwaine scratched his chin.

“Right. That’s funny.”

“What is?” Leon cried, derelict. He whimpered at the sound of his own voice and drank hastily from his mug of black coffee.

“You might honestly be my type if ever I had a one, but I’ve never thought about it.”

“How can you not have a type?”

Gwaine shrugged.

“I just fuck around.” He winked, “Hey, you wanna try some? They tell me I give the best blowjobs ever.”

Leon grumbled, not even bothering to take him seriously, “Do you hear yourself when you talk or do you just let the air out of your mouth?”

Gwaine teased him, “I bet Mithian is one of those women who secretly enjoy gay porn.”

Leon reacted with a satisfying growl that sent Gwaine laughing hysterically.

“I want to punch you. I tell you, I will punch you. I just _can’t_ right now.”

“You sound so much like Arthur,” Gwaine gloated.

Later, when Leon and he met with the Round Table in front of Hyde Park, Gwaine was wearing his brand new t-shirt, leather jacket purposefully left open, and Leon was trying to hide his face behind huge shades because, “ _I’m a public figure, for Christ’s sake_.”

Morgana goggled and she looked as if she were torn between laughing and yelling at Gwaine.

He stood in front of her, cocksure grin and freshly washed long hair.

“I can’t believe you are actually wearing it,” she mumbled, appalled.

It occurred to him that no one really knew they were… what were Morgana and he doing, actually?

Well, of course, Arthur and Merlin had their opinions about them. One night Gwaine might have joined an unconscious contest between Merlin and Morgana on who had the loudest sex – not the highest point in his life, but definitely one of the most recreational – so there was no point in pretending Arthur and Merlin didn’t know they were fucking. But, honestly, Gwaine himself had no clear idea. Morgana and he weren’t exactly talking things through. They had already covered most of what they needed long before entering the comfortable chaos that ruled their friendship. Relationship. Thing.

Now they were simply… acting. Trying. Deciding without truly reasoning.

Wishful thinking. Whispering.

“Don’t you know me at all?” he archly remarked.

Morgana made a small, pleased smile.

“I thought so, but you still manage to surprise me.”

“Good. It’ll keep things fun.”

She frowned, doubtful, and Gwaine saw her catching the hesitation in his own face, which cleared once she felt his hand brushing against hers. Morgana instantly laced her fingers with his and she smiled, a brief candle of tenderness kindled behind her huge eyes. He felt his own lips stretching into a hopeless grin, and he must have looked incredibly stupid, but he couldn’t help holding her hand just a little tighter, and if he was aware of Leon and Mithian’s shocked gazes – maybe _triumphant_ was more accurate on Mithian’s part – he thought nothing of it.

Morgana’s hand was familiarly cool, and she leaned lightly on his arm as she arched an eyebrow at Arthur and Lance.

“So, are we going or what?”

She surely couldn’t help a little gloating when even Percival noticed their joined hands and looked like a man who had been smacked in the face with a brick. Two bricks. Massive marble bricks.

Gwaine felt a short stab of guilt, an indenture in his gossamer happiness.

He caught eyes with his friend and knew Percival would ask about it, about their joined hands, about Gwaine’s foreign smile and Morgana’s unusual compliance.

Gwaine didn’t have any answer to offer yet. He had only a funny t-shirt and a long list of emotions he couldn’t sort out. He just knew they felt good and that he liked that t-shirt.

He also knew that he had stopped feeling horrible and self-destructive for wanting to be at Morgana’s side.

He knew the tension always lifted a little from her shoulders when he looked her way, while once it had been the opposite.

He knew she was Arthur’s. That she was Avalon’s. Just as he was too.

Perhaps she was his and he was hers.

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

They all got a bit worried when Elyan started dating Lizzie. She was an explosive burst of light and laughter, she made Elyan so genuinely happy it was impossible to look at them without smiling internally, but she was an outsider. She wasn’t from Camelot.

She was a common girl, with a common life, and she kept saying she wanted to go to Ireland to look for fairies – Gwaine had signed up for his own death the day he had told her he had joked about seeing a leprechaun in his back garden as a boy – but she didn’t know what she was talking about, and they all knew Elyan: he was pure, sincere and direct, how could they expect him to fall in love with someone and never tell her the truth about himself, about all of them?

So they cynically hoped they would break up, or at least they did for a short while. When it became awfully clear that leaving Lizzie would devastate Elyan, Gwen decided to take matters into her hands and talk to Arthur.

Elyan was the youngest of them all. He wasn’t only her brother: he was everyone’s little brother. They needed to protect him. To help him. So they had to step in.

Arthur mused for a long, long time. Then he looked at Gwen and asked, “Do you trust her?”

“I do, and Elyan needs this. I think we all do. We can’t keep the outside world at arm’s length forever.”

“Then do it.”

So Gwen rang Lizzie, she invited her over for tea and cake with Mithian and Morgana, and Lizzie brought crystallised violets because she thought they would be a nice touch. She had made them herself, Lizzie told Gwen, like her granny had taught her.

Morgana picked at a violet, studying it curiously.

“Am I supposed to eat it?”

Lizzie beamed, “You can put it in the tea if you want. Instead of sugar.”

Morgana looked scandalised. She didn’t even put milk in her tea. Sometimes she added a few drops of lemon, when she was feeling magnanimous. She was never going to put crystallised violets in her cup.

“I’ll pass. But they’re pretty,” she conceded.

Gwen chuckled politely behind her hand.

“Wow, Morgana. That was almost kind,” Mithian teased.

“Thank you. Our CEO has been telling me that if I smile, people will buy whatever I say.”

Gwen tilted her head, “You shouldn’t give away the trick, though.”

“I gathered our Unicorn Lady already knew it. She’s not stupid.”

“Which,” Mithian translated humorously, “would be a compliment in Morgana’s jargon.”

Lizzie smiled.

“I figured as much.”

Morgana smirked, “See? Not stupid.”

The blonde woman nodded and bit her lip in a childlike habit.

“Since I’m not stupid I kinda expect the interrogation to start soon,” she admitted cheerfully.

Morgana eyed her sceptically, “Kinda?”

Lizzie shrugged defensively.

“I’ve been dating Elyan for some time now, and I still haven’t received any type of threats about not hurting him. Nor invitations to leave him alone.”

She wrinkled her nose. “Sisters and mothers… usually, they don’t like me. So I was expecting this.”

Gwen frowned and felt a surge of protectiveness towards the small woman. She leaned over the coffee table and held Lizzie’s hand.

“That’s not it, sweetheart. We would never turn you down,” she reassured her.

“Quite the opposite,” Morgana explained impassively, sipping her tea without sparing a look to the other women, an air of loftiness exuding from her polished manners.

Lord, she had no idea how intimidating she could look when she did that. Even Gwen, who had lived the entirety of her first life dealing with stubborn kings and making them feel ashamed for their arrogant behaviours, felt like a little, coarse girl when Morgana pulled that regal attitude.

“You make Elyan happy, Lizzie. I’m glad of it,” she said, trying to mollify Morgana’s starkness.

“You are?” Lizzie queried disbelievingly. “Because, really, your opinion matters a lot to him, so if you ever told him I’m trash he would totally dump me.”

Mithian laughed heartedly, “We are all happy to have you around, blondie.”

“So you’re not going to give me a special talk?”

Gwen grimaced and Mithian sighed uncomfortably, “Actually, yes. And no.”

“I don’t understand.”

Mithian glanced at Morgana and the pale woman held her gaze steadily. She put down her cup of tea and casually asked, “Gwen?”

“It’s not really up to me, is it?” Gwen replied, and Morgana smirked knowingly.

Because yes, Gwen had been the queen of Camelot once, she had been the most important sovereign in all Albion, but that time was long gone, and while Gwen was still considered the most sensible person of them all, when Arthur wasn’t there the Round Table had started to look at Morgana as if she were the one in charge.

Camelot might be cold stones hidden by centuries of dirt and ashes, but the Pendragons were still alive, and they would forever be kings and queens. In that world and the one after it.

“I was willing to leave the honour to you.”

Gwen rolled her eyes, “Well thank you, Your Grace.”

Morgana cackled placidly. When she turned her gaze to Lizzie, she appeared just a little more amused and a little less cold.

“I have only one question for you, very simple: how much do you care about Elyan?”

Lizzie faltered.

“I… don’t know. A lot?”

“That’s not enough. Do you see a future for the two of you?”

“It’s a bit early to talk about these things,” she critically said.

Morgana nodded and she licked her lips pensively, “True, yet I’m asking. I don’t mean to scare you, little one, but I need to know.”

Gwen cringed inwardly at Morgana’s epithet for Lizzie. ‘Little one’, seriously? So much for not scaring her.

But Lizzie smiled shyly and hugged herself.

“Well, I do hope we can have a future. I’ve never met someone quite like him.”

Mithian patted her shoulder amiably, “I’m sure you haven’t. He’s a very nice boy.”

Lizzie lit up enthusiastically, “Yes, he is, isn’t he? Like, he doesn’t make fun of me. And, oh my God, he actually listens when I talk. I don’t even think my mother listens to me. She’s always like ‘oh Lizzie dear, that’s _so you_ ’ with that air that it’s like telling ‘ah, my daughter is such a clutz, our dizzy Lizzie’. He doesn’t do that. He actually bought me real roses for our first date. Or sometimes he just pops up at work with flowers or the sweets I like and that’s it. He just says, ‘Have a nice day, Lizzie’, kisses me on the cheek and then off he goes. Like, who does that?”

Gwen smiled proudly: she knew all of those things. At first, Elyan had been downright panicking about Lizzie. He hadn’t known how to approach her, how to make her see that he definitely, desperately liked her, and so he had been sending Gwen strings of text messages for weeks, asking if it was okay to stop by the store where she worked, if he wouldn’t come out as a creep, could he buy her a bouquet of sunflowers? Because he knew sunflowers weren’t a bouquet thing but she liked them?

At a certain point, Gwen had grown so exasperated with him, that she had thrown her telephone to Lancelot and told him to hammer the doubts out of her brother’s anxious skull.

Mithian looked impressed.

“Elyan, apparently. Damn, Gwen, you raised your brother pretty well.”

Gwen laughed, and Morgana hummed appreciatively.

“He feels a bit like an old soul, doesn’t he? A young boy with too much spirit for his age.”

Oh, so that was how Morgana intended to tackle it. Gwen had expected her to be more subtle but maybe it could prove better to be direct.

She waited for Lizzie’s reaction.

It didn’t disappoint her.

“Yes, he does. But…” the blonde woman wavered, “that is actually how it feels with all of you guys. Like, I don’t mean to offend but you’re all a tad off. And it’s me talking. Usually, I’m the weird one.”

Mithian snorted and Morgana’s smile turned feral.

“Oh, I like you,” she said. “You are right. We are old souls.”

“Metaphorically?” Lizzie offered.

“Literally.”

“Explain.”

Gwen shut her eyes and crossed her fingers, hiding her hands against her chest as she played nervously with her wedding band.

Morgana’s voice acquired a seductive tone as she recalled memories and legends, disentangling the knots between fiction and past. Lizzie listened without even breathing.

“You see, if you want to be with Elyan, you had to know the truth. We can’t ask him to keep such a secret from the person he loves.”

Gwen opened her eyes, worried, when she heard Lizzie gasping, “Wait, wait, he loves me? Like, seriously loves me?”

Morgana quirked an irritated eyebrow at her, “Why do you even think I am talking to you?”

“I thought you liked me.”

“I mean about our past.”

“Oh. That. Right.”

Gwen smiled feebly, still rotating anxiously her ring around her finger.

“So, you believe us?”

Lizzie grinned and started counting on her fingertips, “Well, I mean, Lancelot, Guinevere, Arthur, Merlin, Percival, Gwaine, Morgana… there’s a point where coincidences stop being coincidences and it’s just the world screaming at you that something’s at play.”

Mithian tilted her head, “She’s got a point.”

“And Morgana has magic,” Lizzie added.

“I have what?” Morgana startled, and even Gwen frowned because she was pretty sure Morgana hadn’t ever practised magic in front of Lizzie. Actually, none of them had seen her doing anything of the sort in years.

“Come on: the way you speak with Gwaine. It’s totally telepathy. You have all these silent arguments when you look at each other. Like, one of you says something and you go into these staring contests where your faces actually do things? I know you’re talking with your minds.”

Morgana scoffed, “That’s not telepathy. It’s just him getting on my nerves.”

“Oh.”

Mithian nodded, “Yeah, I can confirm. That’s just the way they are. And she does that with Arthur and Merlin quite often too.”

She took a bite of her chocolate cake and then made a noise, her mouth full, as she remembered something, “Oh, Gwen! You owe me fifty.”

Gwen frowned darkly. Not that story again.

“A t-shirt isn’t proof enough.”

Mithian gulped down her morsel and turned to Morgana, “Hey, is Gwaine bi?”

Morgana squared her shoulders defensively.

“Why are you asking?”

“Just answer.”

Her eyes darkened and she kept silent, her posture rigid.

Mithian huffed, “Oh, whatever. I had a bet with Gwen, okay? I think he is bi, she thinks he isn’t. Come on, I know it was you who gave him that t-shirt.”

“What if I was just making fun of him?”

Gwen smiled victoriously.

“Told you so.”

“Wait, Gwaine is bi? I thought he was straight,” Lizzie exclaimed, a little puzzled by the sudden turn of the conversation.

Mithian waved her hand, “Oh, you haven’t met him before Morgana. I swear I saw him checking out guys’ butts as often as me.”

“There is no ‘before Morgana’, what are you even saying?” Morgana croaked.

“Well…”

For a very uncomfortable moment, Gwen and Mithian both looked at Morgana and the woman’s shoulders sagged. She looked like a scared deer caught in the headlights.

“There’s no before me or after me. He is just Gwaine, with or without me.”

Mithian snorted inelegantly and arched her eyebrows, “Sure, Jan.”

Lizzie made a cute face and nipped her lip.

“But you two are together, right?”

“I suppose.”

Gwen chuckled, “Oh Lord, you’re worse than Arthur.”

Morgana scoffed, clearly offended.

“Excuse me? I didn’t spend the majority of my lives pretending I liked the wrong gender.”

Mithian resumed, “Which brings us back to my point: Gwaine. I’ve tried to ask Leon, but he gets red every time. He can’t handle locker room talk.”

 “Your sex life must be very dull.”

Mithian denied thoughtlessly, waving her hand as if the idea was just an annoying fly.

“He only has a problem with the talking, not with the doing.”

“Maybe Morgana doesn’t know,” Lizzie reasoned.

“Of course I do!” Morgana retorted, piqued.

“So?”

Gwen was pretty calm. She was sure Gwaine simply had it in him to give out the sexual vibes. She had never seen him flirting with a man, while it had happened tons of times with women – on his defence, girls had a tendency of just throwing themselves at him. And he didn’t exactly turn them down. At least, he hadn’t in the past.

 _Before Morgana_ , she gleefully added to herself.

As a consequence, she was positively scorned when Morgana shrugged nonchalantly and told her, “Gwen, give Mithian her money.”

Mithian snapped her fingers, exulting.

“Ah! I _knew it_!”

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

Having sex in the backseat of Gwaine’s car reminded Morgana of her teenage years, of her life both before and after remembering her past ones.

Before reacquiring her memories, she had been curious, adventurous, decidedly too precocious – cue to her father giving her the sex talk at fourteen. Absolutely needed, hundred percent helpful – and after… well, Morgana had wanted to prove to herself that the French bastard hadn’t scarred her forever, that she was still able to be an adolescent even if her memories spoke to her of maternity and old age and of the regrets and pains of many adulthoods.

She had wanted to kiss pretty boys, to relive the first excitements with the carelessness she deserved and no, no, no, she didn’t care for dark hair, just like she didn’t miss blue eyes meeting hers in the quiet of a bedroom. She had been determined to build another new life of her own.

It had been kind of sad. She had still managed to make it enjoyable.

Gwaine and she had driven for hours, prompted by the accidental idea, “ _Why don’t we run somewhere we can see the stars?_ ” and they had, the swarming city behind their backs, and miles of towns and highways soon to be seen and forgotten, inconsequential, too full and too empty for their liking.

Gwaine had parked his car in the middle of a rural nothingness and together they had waited for the sun to set, a bottle of wine that they had bought along the way now almost empty.

They had sat on the bonnet of his car, Gwaine’s arm draped lazily around Morgana’s waist, pulling her a little closer to his side, and Morgana had looked at the black sky and its luminous crystals of diamonds, pointing at the constellations she held dearer.

Gwaine had hummed at every ancient name she had shared with him, his breath warming the skin of her neck as he kissed the soft spots of her throat and her cheeks.

She had laughed tremulously, her hands firmly buried under his shirt, fingers brushing on taut muscles and sinews, and she had shivered for the cool gusts of the night air.

They had moved to the backseats of his car then, peeling off each other pieces of clothing, lodging uncomfortably in the compartment like they hadn’t done since they were barely of age.

Now, with Gwaine’s lips pressed against her collarbone, Morgana was filled with the same inebriating adrenaline of her adolescence, but she wasn’t running from anything: she was running towards it.

She dug her fingers into his back, holding him close. Gwaine suddenly jerked away and moaned in pain.

“Careful there,” he lamented, and Morgana stilled.

“What? What’s up?”

“Broken rib,” he explained laconically.

“ _Broken rib?_ ”

“Well, technically it’s just badly cracked, but whatever. Still a pain in the arse. In the chest.”

Morgana didn’t shove him away only because she was definitely more aware than him of the dangers of cracked ribs.

“Get off. We’re not having sex when you have cracked ribs.”

“Are you serious?” he asked, flummoxed.

“Well, surely we’re not doing it in your car where it’s unpractical and you could really hurt yourself.”

Gwaine laughed and rubbed a hand over his face.

Morgana frowned.

“It’s not funny.”

He was still chuckling when he kissed the tip of her nose and said, “Actually, it is. It really is. You don’t want me to get hurt.”

His breath smelled of cigarettes and wine, just like hers, and he kissed her on her closed eyelids. His lips were chapped and the stubble on his chin bothered her, but it was all so warm and delicate Morgana still relished it.

“How far we’ve come, uh?” Gwaine whispered, and oh. _Oh_.

She allowed him to crawl carefully above her then, elbows and knees attentively positioned so he wouldn’t bend his chest too much. She brushed her thumb on his lips and Gwaine sucked it in his mouth, his teeth nipping gently at her fingertip.

She licked her lips, eyes locked with his, and he let out an appreciative growl.

Morgana made a purring sound in the back of her throat when Gwaine started sucking bruises on her pulse point again, nibbling playfully at her tender skin. She unbuckled his belt and pulled down the zip of his jeans, palming him sensually through the elastic fabric of his underwear.

Gwaine groaned on her neck, bucking his hips against her hand.

“So impatient, my lady Morgana,” he mocked her.

“I’m just trying to keep you warm,” she teased him back, her own arousal burning in her belly as she felt him hardening under her touch. She slipped her hand past his boxers and held his length, blowing him with skilled fingers, grazing just oh-so-slightly with the blunt edges of her nails.

He moaned and bit her shoulder, his breath hot and trembling against her goosebumps. He raked his hands along her legs, drawing her thighs closer to his groin.

She kissed his temple, her free hand buried in the soft waves of his hair, and Gwaine murmured huskily in her ear.

“Gods, I love you so much.”

Morgana knew better than believing what someone said during the heat of sex. She didn’t even trust her own mouth in those moments.

Still, her heart did a painful flip in her chest, and she pulled Gwaine’s hair almost forcefully, kissing him angrily and sucking his lips with teeth and tongue.

Gwaine chortled in her mouth, amused by her sudden aggressiveness. She felt his laughter reverberating down her throat, in her chest where her heart was beating a tad quicker, inside her lungs and then even deeper, into her belly.

Why did he have to slip inside her body in every possible way ever? Couldn’t he just fill the space between her legs and leave at least the corners to her?

When he pulled her briefs aside and slid inside her with one deep thrust, Morgana’s breath hitched harshly in her lungs, and she choked on the sensation of completeness, of satiety. She wrapped her legs around his hips and arched her back, her knee hitting uncomfortably against the leather backseat and the coarse texture of his jeans grazing her bare skin.

Morgana gasped and Gwaine thrust roughly, the roll of his hips burying him deeper and harder into her. She rocked against him, drowning in the heat, in the vertigoes and in the scorching waves of passion, riding his steadfast pace with erratic moans.

Her mind went blank, achingly close to the orgasm, and her hands strayed. She grabbed the back of the front seat, blindly searching for anything to hold onto as she cried out in pleasure.

She distantly heard Gwaine cursing, the muscles of her sex clenching and relaxing around his cock in the throes of her orgasm, and he thrust vigorously, chasing his own pleasure in her welcoming warmth. He forgot all about his injury, he just sank inside her with need. His breathless rhythm and the hungry touch of his fingers on her breasts pushed her into a second shock of pleasure, so rapid and unexpected it nearly hurt her, and for a moment Morgana felt nothing and everything, suspended like a cloud in the sky, trapped safely in the strong cage of Gwaine’s arms and legs.

When he came inside her, it was almost a relief, the hot and familiar stickiness trickling down her thighs, and her spent body collapsed in his embrace.

Everything inside her throbbed and burned brazenly, and she shivered, lost in the fog of their aftermath.

Gwaine relaxed, a heavy mist in his eyes, and he rested his head in the crook of her shoulder, one knee planted on the floor of his car so he wouldn’t trap Morgana under his full weight.

Her hands found the space between his shoulder blades, and she caressed nervous muscles and marred skin, his body as hot as a fever while she covered it with gentle fingers.

He moaned tiredly, knots of sinews and little scars melting under her protective touch.

“You know it’s true, right?” he whispered softly, and Morgana perceived his lips moving against her skin.

She quivered a little and sighed compliantly, closing her eyes.

“What would?”

“What I said. It’s true.”

Her heart did a second flip.

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

Arthur had forgotten his lunch, and he wasn’t going to leave the office to eat at some restaurant nearby with his associates, else he would lose too much precious time.

It wasn’t just his work: work was easy. It was the rest that was making his head ache almost constantly: Arthur wasn’t good at long-term planning, he wasn’t the type to manipulate and scheme, but he was learning, because that was the way people came into power now, and fame and position were the sempiternal tools to change things and make them better.

Leon was meeting with the king that week and he was going to discuss with him who the crown should support as next Prime Minister, because that was how intimate Leon was with the king. Arthur wasn’t supposed to know that, of course. No one was supposed to know that, but still.

Things were changing in the minds of the English people. The political landscape would need to adjust accordingly. Arthur might have had an idea or two – or several – on how the government should change. Ideas that Leon would placidly prompt to the king as if they were his, and maybe even voice them like they were inconsequential. Apparently, it was a trick which worked splendidly.

Arthur sighed, tapping his fingers on the desk to contain the urge to throw all the papers on the floor.

It was so much easier when swords and magic could weave the destiny of a kingdom. Now, they weren’t enough. There had to be politics too, and money, and laws, and international accords.

Gwaine and Tristan were going to be at the meeting too, and that was something else Arthur shouldn’t have known.

He happened to know a lot of things he was supposed to ignore, because his last name might not be Pendragon any longer, but he was still Arthur. For all he kept saying that he wasn’t king anymore – definitely not the king of Camelot – influence had a sneaky way of always slipping into his hands.

Boston had been the only time he had found the chance to live his life as dully and normally as possible. It had been great, but now it was back to reality for Arthur, and he had to call Percival in a couple of hours and ask him if Elyan had landed safely. He couldn’t call Elyan himself because nowadays his mobile was being tapped and – _again_ – Arthur wasn’t supposed to know that Elyan was with Percival.

Truthfully, he shouldn’t have even known that Gwaine was already back in London, in England, but he knew because Morgana knew and she and Gwaine were becoming slightly co-dependent, albeit in a weirdly positive fashion. Only the two of them could find a way to turn dependency into something good.

Speaking of the Devil, his sister knocked on the door of his office, a paper bag in her hands which smelled suspiciously like hamburgers and fries.

“Lunch, Your Majesty,” Morgana said.

His stomach growled.

She slouched on the chair in front of his desk and indeed grabbed two greasy hamburgers and oily fries out of the paper package.

Arthur chewed the fries with an ecstatic moan. He hadn’t realised how famished he was.

“To what do I owe the pleasure?”

“I was around.”

“You were not.”

Morgana took a bottle of diet coke out of her purse and sipped.

“My father is Gorlois,” she plainly stated, and Arthur choked on his mouthful.

“ _What_?”

“My father. He is Gorlois.”

“You mean Paul? Paul is the reincarnation of the duke of Tintagel?”

“Yes.”

“How comes he never told us?”

“He doesn’t know. He hasn’t really reincarnated, not like us. He is just a returned soul. Freya must have managed to join the three worlds. Which makes sense, because that would also explain how she was able to send Gwaine to us even though he hadn’t heard the call.”

Arthur hummed and went back to his hamburger.

“When did you realise?”

“I started remembering more of my childhood after I came back from America. Once, I thought it was just a wicked coincidence that daddy and Gorlois look so much alike, but lately I’ve begun noticing things, and I’ve just had the most awkward conversation with him about déjà-vus and past lives, so…”

Arthur was so very tempted to ask Morgana about America. It was masochistic of him, because if it had shaken her so badly that she had literally broken down, then it was surely unfathomable, and Arthur didn’t know if he could bear the thought of his son being in pain or alone or dead when he himself was alive and well and maybe he could help him.

But then, if Morgana still refused to talk about it there was probably nothing they could do, in which case, ignorance could be the mythical bliss.

“Was it worse than the sex talk?” he decided to say.

Morgana quirked her eyebrows.

“You must be confusing my sex talk with yours: mine was peachy and actually educational. Yours, on the other hand, was awful.”

Arthur groaned, “Good God, it was. I still get the creeps about it.”

“It’s such a fortunate coincidence that your parents will never need to worry about your pregnant teen girlfriend.”

“And that was another smashing family talk.”

Morgana huffed and wiped her hands on a paper napkin, “Oh please, you had it easy. Your folks fell in love with Merlin from the very moment they saw him.”

“Wish he had been that courteous back in Camelot,” Arthur reluctantly commented.

“Merlin’s always been adorable, it’s just you who bring out the jerk in everyone.”

“Now you are confusing your situation with mine.”

“Am not.”

They bickered until their fries got cold and very far from edible. Then Morgana sucked her lips and looked at Arthur pensively.

“On a scale from one to disaster, how bad would it be if daddy met Gwaine?”

“I think your father would come out rather unscathed.”

“I was more concerned about Gwaine.”

Arthur grimaced.

“Ah. He’s a dead man.”

“Daddy will tell him to cut his hair,” she mused with no little suffering. It wasn’t a secret that she loved Gwaine’s hair dearly, not with all the time she spent playing with it even in public.

“No. Your father will call me and tell _me_ that Gwaine needs to cut his hair. And then he’ll also say I should have been better at double checking who you were dating.”

“In you defence, I don’t think Gwaine and I ever dated.”

Arthur choked, “Don’t tell him, or he will kill Gwaine, and then he’ll kill me too.”

“Daddy’s awfully traditional, is he?”

“Well, he has stolen your mother’s dress so you could wear it on your future wedding day.”

“Oh God, is that why he did it? I thought he just wanted to spite mother!”

“That too.”

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

Merlin and Gwaine were watching a movie from the early Nineties, commenting viciously on the absurdity of the plot and the poor acting. It was a low-quality film about which Morgana vaguely remembered her French university friend talking with too much enthusiasm. Arthur was reading _The Stone of Tears_ as if he couldn’t already quote half of the book by heart, but Morgana caught him peeking at the television from time to time.

On the screen, the protagonist was riding her horse through the forest, galloping back home.

Morgana sighed, nostalgic.

“I miss riding.”

Gwaine raised his chin to look at her direction. He waggled his eyebrows and grinned mischievously.

“We can fix it right away.”

Arthur groaned disapprovingly and focused on his book with renewed intensity.

“Oh, you’re awful!” Morgana cried, eyeing him with sheer disgust.

“You like it,” Gwaine gloated maliciously.

“No, I really don’t.”

He pouted childishly and rose from the couch.

“You’re mean. I won’t buy you candies next time,” he said, holding her hips with both hands.

Morgana made a sceptical face.

“You never buy me candies.”

“Well, I could, but I surely won’t do that now.”

“I don’t even like candies,” she retorted, poking at his chest, and Gwaine smiled victoriously.

“That’s why I don’t buy them.”

“Okay, stop. We’re not having this conversation anymore.”

He shrugged unapologetically and kissed the tip of her nose, bringing her hips a little closer to his.

“What do we do, then?” he whispered, and he moved his mouth to her lips, biting softly with his teeth. She couldn’t help a little smile.

“Morgana has a room, you know?” her brother stated.

“Arthur!” she groaned, but Gwaine just laughed.

“Gotcha,” he said and, all of a sudden, he lifted Morgana up and carried her on his shoulder.

“What are you doing, you blasted ox!” she protested loudly, punching his back.

“Your brother is already complaining and you did say you miss riding.”

“You know I didn’t mean that!” she snarled as Gwaine made a beeline for her bedroom.

“If you need us, sire, we’ll be in your sister’s room making sweet, sweet love!” he declared.

Arthur turned a little green and Morgana tried to kick Gwaine in the stomach.

“I’m not doing anything with you idiot, especially if you don’t put me down!”

Merlin puffed, “Would you stop shouting? I’m trying to watch a film here.”

Gwaine snorted, “The girl re-enacts their first meeting so the prince remembers her.”

“What the fuck, Gwaine!”

“What? I had a French girlfriend once. Made me see all five of them.”

He managed to walk into Morgana’s room – with Morgana still on his shoulder like a flour sack – before Merlin could magically throw pillows at him.

He finally put her down on her bed, chuckling puerilely.

Morgana crossed her arms.

“He will hate you forever. You should never spoil Merlin anything. It irks him.”

“It was a crap film, anyway.”

“He will still hate you.”

Gwaine shrugged and knelt on her bed, his legs on each side of Morgana’s hips.

“What are you doing now?” she hissed archly.

“Getting in the mood so you can ride me.”

She thought of smacking him and pushing him off her bed. He was getting so confident around her, like he had some kind of power over her or whatever. But then he smiled and he kissed her softly, his weight heavy on her legs, and his hand caressed her chin very tenderly, slowly.

Morgana forgot she wanted to spite him and she threw her arms around his shoulders, pulling him closer.

Gwaine pushed her down delicately, guiding her until she touched the mattress with her back and his hand slid from her chin to her neck, his thumb drawing warm circles on the column of her throat. He was crawling over her and, oh, it felt so right when he chose to be on his knees for her, to take her and touch her while she was lying so comfortably beneath him.

Morgana bit and sucked his lower lip, eliciting a soft groan from him that made her grin.

“On your back, sir Gwaine,” she whispered against his mouth, and Gwaine rolled on her bed obediently, carrying Morgana with him. She purposefully sat on his groin, rocking her hips slowly as they kept kissing.

His breath grew just a tad heavier and his hands clasped her hips but he didn’t urge her to move faster, didn’t pull her closer.

Morgana sucked a contented sigh from his mouth and slipped a hand under his t-shirt, caressing him gently on his pectorals, feeling the sparse chest hair under her fingers. Gwaine broke the kiss only for a brief moment and got rid of his shirt, then his hands were pulling Morgana’s top out of her denim jeans and they were kissing again.

His palms were always so warm, just like hers were cool, and the attentive brush of his callouses on her bare skin made her shiver. She rubbed herself a little harder against his groin and Gwaine answered with a pleased moan. He unhooked her bra with skilled fingers and palmed both her breasts. Morgana arched her back, leaning into his touch, curling her tongue in his mouth, needing him maybe more than what she cared to admit.

The knock on her door distracted them both and made her jump.

“Uhm, Arthur and I will head out now. You know, in case someone here wanted to have loud sex without giving her brother a heart attack.”

Morgana sighed.

“Fine. See you later.”

“You’ll forgive us if we don’t walk you to the door!” Gwaine joked, and Morgana slapped him on the shoulder.

Merlin chuckled behind the door, “Yes, whatever.”

Gwaine chortled and curled a lock of Morgana’s hair around his finger.

“So thoughtful of them,” he smiled and she just shook her head.

“I don’t know why I put up with you.”

“You like using me for the sex.”

She huffed, falsely peeved, and pecked him on the lips, “That might be it.”

Gwaine wove his hands into her hair, pulling her back towards his mouth, and he gave her a long, passionate kiss. It made her insides burn, and a slow, warming fire kindled in her chest and between her legs.

“That, and you also love me,” he whispered hoarsely against her lips, stealing the breath from her and kissing her again.

Morgana moaned in shock, but Gwaine’s hands were already rubbing on her sides and her stomach, something which felt scaringly more like a gentle caress than a lustful touch, and she had no clever remark to offer, no snarky answer. So she just fell into his kiss, melting in little drops inside his mouth, and Gwaine caught every last piece of her with his hands and his lips.

Maybe she was in love with him.

Fine. He was just as in love with her. She could do it. They could.

Gwaine took off her top and her bra, and Morgana moved back to slip out of her jeans.

There was a swollen bruise on his right hipbone – stupid man who would never learn to guard his side better when he aimed – and a long line of stitches that dug into his skin just above it, so Morgana was extra careful when she took the elastic hem of his trousers and pulled them down, helping him first out of them and then out of his underwear.

Gwaine was handsome, there was no reason to deny it. Long and soft hair, cocky grin and a five o’ clock which often turned into a stubble when he was too lazy to shave. He had a strong body, defined by muscles and marred by scars, some of them little, some of them not.

Morgana had grown comfortable with and used to all the sharp angles and rare curves of his body, the brightness of his eyes when he laughed and the soft circle of his mouth when he came between choked moans. It still surprised her how easily and naturally their bodies fit, how her chin would find the perfect nook between his shoulder and his neck, how Gwaine’s knee would fill the exact angle of her thighs.

Morgana crawled over him, mindful of his healing wound, and she kissed a path from his throat to his navel, listening attentively to his ragged breathing, his short intakes working as a well-known invitation to keep on kissing and sucking on his skin. There was a corner just next to his hip that made him ticklish, but if she exerted the right pressure with her lips, she knew it would make him shiver and grow hard and aroused.

She giggled shamelessly when Gwaine indeed cursed through his gritted teeth and rocked his hips instinctively. She rubbed her hand on his abs, gently pushing him down.

“Easy there, sir knight,” she mocked him, pressing soft kisses to his sound hip, working slowly but steadily her way towards his groin.

“Morgana…” he rumbled pleadingly.

She laughed and bit his thigh mischievously.

“Now, now. Look who is begging,” she cooed.

“Go to Hell,” he muttered and she caught the rapid twitch in his hands as he grabbed the bedsheets.

“Would you come with me?” she whispered not too playfully, and she touched his hard cock with her lips.

She saw him shiver and hold his breath. She darted her tongue out to lick his tip, and Gwaine grunted.

“I think you’re already bringing me down there, my lady.”

Morgana raised her eyes to meet his and there was an amused smile behind his gaze, almost pure and soft, even though they were both naked and hardly pure and soft at all.

It was adoration. It was carefulness. It was that heavy and imperious feeling which had been pulling them close and making them clash and burn for the last fifteen centuries.

She could get used to that too.

She welcomed him into her mouth, tasting the smooth and hot skin, and she caressed his thigh before cupping gently his balls. She ran her lips along his shaft, flicking her tongue around his tip and using her hands to tease him when he was almost out of her mouth. Gwaine sighed and called her name between his moans, urging her to go faster as she forced herself to keep it slow, to move her hands and her mouth with little hunger and only patience and worship.

Gwaine was all for roughness and wild lust, but Morgana loved to see him breathless and worn, to coax him into the orgasm. She wanted to see him come undone, rather than simply _come_. It made her feel like he was a little more hers, just as she lost new pieces of herself every time he made her scream through her climaxes.

Gwaine didn’t make her feel safe. He was anything _but_ safe, with the ghosts he saw, both the real ones and those entrapped in his mind. He wasn’t safe, not with the new scars furrowing his salty skin and his bruises and the midnight phone calls that sent him away for weeks when not months. But he made her feel alive, and even though he didn’t feel safe, she knew she actually was. Safe.

He didn’t protest when she stopped sucking his cock only because he saw her reaching for her briefs and pushing them past her knees, onto the floor. He offered Morgana his hand and she looked for a way to sit on his hips without weighing on his bruise.

“Don’t worry about that,” he said, but she grabbed his hand tighter and used her other one to balance herself, one leg spread wider than the other.

“I don’t want to hurt you.”

He smiled arrogantly, “It’s just a scratch. I can handle it.”

Morgana raised her hips and took him in her hand.

“You don’t have to,” she murmured as she guided him inside her.

Gwaine rocked his hips against hers, sheathing himself deeper into her core and Morgana moaned loudly, her hands going to his chest to keep herself up. She rolled her hips, forcing him into a steady pace, searching for the right rhythm despite the weird angle of her legs.

“I’m not crystal, Morgana. I can’t break,” he panted, and he thrust harder inside her to prove his point.

Yes, he could break. Goddess, he could. But he wasn’t going to, was he?

Morgana laughed weakly between elated moans and she stopped pushing him down, trusting him. Gwaine rose up to envelop her in his arms, and it wasn’t the most comfortable position ever, nor did it make it any easier to just thrust and rock and enjoy the friction, but it was intense, and his body was all against hers and Morgana felt like conquering him, her legs around his sides and her fingers digging into his shoulders.

She kissed him with her open mouth, reaching for him with tongue and teeth and they were moaning and stealing each other’s breath, running paths and tying knots with their hands.

He came inside her and slipped his fingers between them, rubbing her clit until her walls clenched around him and Morgana came with a muffled cry that he drank from her lips.

They slowed their pace and Gwaine was still sheathed inside her when he kissed her temple and held her possessively.

“See?” he whispered huskily in her ear. “Not broken.”

Morgana hummed contentedly and carded her fingers through his hair.

“I don’t want you to break ever again,” she said softly anyway, and he smiled against her cheek, gliding with his back against her bed, carrying Morgana down with him.

“I won’t, don’t worry.”

She rolled on her side and curled against Gwaine, one leg between his thighs and her hand firmly planted on his chest. She could feel his heartbeat drumming against her open palm, and his arm around her waist anchored her close to him. He smelled of sex and aftershave and she had grown overly fond of that scent.

“I don’t want us to leave this room. Ever.”

“I’ll have to go back home eventually,” he chortled.

“Why don’t you stay?”

Gwaine smirked, ironic.

“Laundry. Getting strange packages in the mail. Things like that.”

Morgana tilted her head slightly to look him in the eye.

“No, I mean _stay_ , Gwaine.”

He frowned, not sure if he had misunderstood. But he hadn’t.

She felt his heart beating faster.

“As in…”

Morgana shrugged, perhaps a little defensive.

“Merlin’s already moved in and if this place is big enough for three, I don’t see why it can’t be enough for four.”

Gwaine hummed pensively.

“It is ridiculously huge,” he conceded.

“Yeah. So?”

“Okay. Why not?”

She let out a breath she hadn’t realised she was holding.

“Okay?”

“Yeah, okay.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title trivia: in the legends, Lady Ragnell was sir Gawain’s most beloved wife. He had more than one, but to my recollections, Lady Ragnell was the love of his life. So here you are.  
> Paul is the real name of Katie McGrath’s father.  
> The _Stone of Tears_ is the second book of _The Sword of Truth_ saga, and while they made a terrible show out of those books, the series is fucking fantastic, prequels included. I still have to sort out my feelings about the spin-offs and I haven’t read the Nicci saga yet, but I’m hopeful.  
>  The movie Merlin and Gwaine are watching is _Fantaghirò 2_ *insert Joey Tribbiani’s I’m-not-even-sorry gif*. It’s an Italo-French production from the Nineties, and if you’re Italian and you have never seen it as a kid you basically had no childhood.


	14. The Perilous Seat

Arthur woke up in the middle of the night to the bloodcurdling screams of his sister.

He jumped to his feet, vaguely aware of Merlin rushing in right behind him, and he barged into Morgana’s room. The space was plunged in darkness, the curtains drawn to fend off even the feeblest moon rays, so he couldn’t see her immediately, but he could hear her sobbing. He moved one trembling step closer to her bed.

“Morgana!”

Gradually, his eyes adjusted to the shadows and Arthur managed to make out the vague shape of Morgana’s naked back and the wider lines of Gwaine’s shoulders.

He was holding Morgana in his arms, and she was hiding her face against his chest, curling up as if to disappear into his embrace. He was cradling her protectively, one hand caressing her hair and his mouth pressed to her ear, whispering soothing sounds.

In the darkness, it was barely impossible to distinguish where her body ended and where Gwaine’s began.

Merlin leaned his hands on Arthur’s shoulders, panting breathlessly.

“What happened?”

Arthur tentatively whispered his sister’s name again. She didn’t answer. She only let out a high-pitched moan of grief that made his heart ache.

“It’s alright, Arthur, I’ve got her. Go back to bed,” Gwaine told him without ever raising his eyes from her. “I’ve got her now.”

Gwaine kissed her hair and whispered something else for her only, secret and soft, and although her sobbing didn’t stop, it quieted slightly.

Arthur swallowed down his worry and squared his shoulders. He was painfully accustomed to nights like that, when Morgana would wake up shrieking with terror, crushed by future visions or very old memories. She could cry and tremble for hours. He had spent his last life and almost the entirety of his new one tending to her, and she had done the same for him. Night by night, Arthur had learned how to comfort Morgana with words, hands and silence until it had become second nature to him.

But that was not his place any longer, he realised. Arthur and Morgana were not fighting alone against the currents of time. He had Merlin to tend to him, and his sister had…

Arthur looked up at Gwaine, but his friend’s attention was entirely focused on Morgana.

She wasn’t alone. _He_ had her.

Arthur nodded to Merlin.

“C’mon, Merlin. It’s all right here.”

He was tempted to whisper a heartfelt ‘thank you’ before closing the door behind his back, but Gwaine probably wouldn’t even hear it, so Arthur simply got back to bed with Merlin’s cautious eyes burning holes in his back.

Arthur trusted Gwaine. He truly did. It was just strange seeing his sister trusting him too.

He didn’t pretend he could understand the wretchedness that Morgana still nursed inside her heart, but what he could see was that she and Gwaine shared the exact type of brokenness. They laughed with the same bitter tones on rainy days, looked at people with similar arrogant scrutiny. They’d both had to forget and teach themselves trust again from the start.

It had taken Morgana so long to learn that she could count on Arthur, that he would shield her, help her. He didn’t know if he was quite ready to give up that connection they had.

If he held Merlin a little tighter that night, if he felt the urge to make their kisses a little fiercer as they undressed and embraced under their soft blankets, Merlin was merciful enough not to comment on it. He answered with kind lips and deft fingers and let his king drown in loving comfort. He kept quiet, for once. He just understood.

Meanwhile, alone again in their bedroom, Morgana was still crying desperately on Gwaine’s shoulder and he was rocking her back and forth, murmuring her name like a prayer, kissing her tear-wet cheeks and drawing circles on her back with his hands.

She was as cold as a corpse, like the scary, empty bodies of which he dreamed so often. Gwaine knew Morgana saw the same monstrosities with the same frequency, and they had gotten used to it. Sometimes she jolted awake, choked screams in her throat, and then she would turn to Gwaine and curl against his firm chest until she could find peace again. Gwaine did the same. He had learned how to shift his weight on the mattress so he wouldn’t wake Morgana when he held onto her. By now, he even knew where he was allowed to kiss her skin without disturbing her sleep, their muscles so accustomed to each other’s touch. It was part of their life: waking up with a furious heart and finding solace in the presence of the warm body next to theirs.

He feared he had a clue about what kind of nightmare could have wounded Morgana so badly.

He kissed the crown of her head and cautiously moved his hands to the sides of her face, his thumbs drawing comforting circles on her cheekbones.

As he held her, he was reminded of the state she had been in when she had come back from America years before, of the evening when he had found her crying in his shower. Morgana was naked and shaking convulsively exactly like in that painful memory they both shared, but things were different now: she didn’t grow numb with pain and he wasn’t scared anymore. At least, not of her.

“What did you see, love?” he asked, and Morgana moaned horribly, her nails digging into his shoulders as she clung tighter to his body.

“They were screaming. They were dying, they were all screaming. Like you did. You were there between them.”

The war again.

Gwaine sighed and touched her forehead with his, their noses inhaling the same warm air of spilled tears and gurgling tremors.

“I’m right here, Morgana. I’m not dying. It’s all past. It’s gone,” he reassured her.

“But it’s not. It’s still in my head, all of it.”

Morgana had told him once just how much World War II had been her personal Hell. The soldiers were always too young, too weak, too dead and too alive at the same time. They were so often delirious with pain, and they screamed. They screamed so much. Dying men screamed in the same way across the centuries, their ache and fear fluctuated through the years and drawled spit and blood from the past into the future. Morgana had seen Gwaine dying in the face of a multitude of strangers. She hadn’t been able to save them, and in her head that had been like killing him over and over again.

She had been happy to die, she had said. It had been a relief.

Gwaine kissed her softly on her lips and on her closed eyelids, and he rubbed his cheek against hers as he told her, “It’s just there now: in your head. It’s not here. It won’t happen again. You’re safe.”

Morgana shook her head.

“I don’t care for myself. Please, don’t die. Please, promise me,” she begged, and Gwaine wished he could simply say ‘yes’ and assuage her fears, ‘yes’ to whatever she needed, ‘yes’ to whatever she desired. But he didn’t want to lie to her, so he laid Morgana gently on their bed, still cradling her carefully in his arms. She let him, her limbs quivering like leaves taunted by a cruel gust of the wind.

“I cannot promise that. I’m only a mortal man,” he apologised, unaware that she had told Arthur the same thing many years before, when they were only teenagers and destiny had begun to unravel underneath them again.

Morgana sobbed pitifully and hid her face against his chest.

“Stay with me, then. At least stay.”

“As long as I can, my lady. As long as we both can.”

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

There were happy days. Many.

There were quiet mornings of lazy kisses and touches, and Arthur would tease Morgana because of the hickeys on her neck and Morgana would get angry at Gwaine because _“Not again!”_ and Merlin just laughed sleepily over his cup of green tea.

There were late nights of planes flying back to London, back _home_ , and Morgana waiting for Gwaine to cross the threshold and fall back into her arms.

There were sunny Saturday afternoons of long walks in the park and hot coffee with too much sugar and “ _Are you seriously putting cinnamon in your mocha?_ ”.

Sometimes there would be plans. Sometimes there would be maps and pictures and schemes lining the table, and everyone would look at Arthur, who would nod and confirm or shake his head disapprovingly, and life would drift onwards.

There were grumpy weeks when work would be so crazy Morgana had to stay in the office way over the closing hours, and the security guard in the hall called her to tell her that a strange man with long hair and a leather jacket was asking for her. Morgana usually puffed but eventually let Gwaine come upstairs. He distracted her and played basketball with her bin and paper balls. She didn’t complete her revisions. He made her laugh. They smiled and touched.

There were evenings, cold blasts of rain drumming against the window glass, Merlin complaining about his feet being cold and Morgana throwing Gwaine an extra blanket so he could wrap it around the warlock and get him to shut up and let them all enjoy the new episode of a trashy tv-show. They binge-watched on Netflix, and Arthur grumpily threw popcorn at Gwaine and Morgana if they dared to kiss during those family marathons.

There were days and nights, and weeks stretched into months, which became a year and then two, and Morgana had no idea how or when all of that had started, but apparently such was her life, and some days she felt like loitering on the brink of explosion, as if her body were unable to contain so much happiness.

She dreamt of Freya more often than ever. Her sister was glad, and Morgana was happy. So, so happy.

Regret had a sneaky way of creeping up on her when she least expected it.

She was lying on the couch with Gwaine, lazily watching the television during a rare moment of quietness in the house. At some point, Morgana had mindlessly unzipped half of Gwaine’s ugly green sweatshirt and she had started caressing his taut chest. As her fingers were painting circles over his heartbeat, a tremor in his muscles made her frown.

Gwaine noticed her subtle stiffness and he covered her hand with his palm.

“What is it, love?”

She looked up at him with glazy, glass-fractured eyes.

“There’s a missing beat."

She wasn’t talking about his cardiac rhythm: his physical heartbeat drummed steadily and healthily. It was the reverberation of his spirit which missed a step every once in a while.

The skin of Morgana’s palm itched and scratched at each muted wave.

Gwaine blinked. “I know. It’s the beat of the ghosts,” he explained thoughtlessly. “They took it away.”

Morgana shuddered.

“Is it still happening?”

He shot her a roguish, careless grin, his fingertips tickling her wrist in long lines. “No, you know I’m shielded. It’s thin glass, but it works just fine.”

Morgana paled, and her hand slipped to the centre of his chest, and there it stayed. Gwaine’s skin was impossibly warm, his body a hard valley of nerves and bones. She still expected him to wake up one day and realise that being with her had been just a huge mistake. She had learned to silence that fear, most of the time, but that didn’t mean it wasn’t still there.

Morgana remembered chainmail and cuirasses, and the clash of blades.

“But I broke the mirror. I broke your protection.”

“Freya put the pieces back together.”

“But it’s cracked now.”

Gwaine nodded silently, a grim seriousness in the tight line of his lips.

“Does it hurt?” she asked.

“Less and less every day. Sometimes I still get these voids where… I don’t know. I call them 'phantom pains'.”

“That’s not funny.”

Gwaine cracked a smile and he caught her face with his hands. The coarse callouses on his palms grazed her cheeks. His hands had been getting harder, rougher, ruined by too many hard surfaces, by guns and fists and tight gauze bandages. In turn, he had become gentler with his touch.

“You’re just too serious,” he scolded her. “Come here.”

She offered a meek resistance when Gwaine slid his legs up on the couch and drew her closer, letting her sit between his knees.

“It’s all right,” he said, looking at Morgana in the eye while he curled a lock of her hair around his fingers. “There’s a piece of my soul that it’s gone forever, eaten away by that Nathair. I know it. But I like to think that you can make it up to me.”

“How?”

She caught the bitter aftertaste of desperation in her own mouth, but Gwaine licked it away with a soft kiss on her lips.

“By giving me a piece of your soul in return.”

“Yes. I suppose we could arrange that.”

She drew the lines of Gwaine’s smug grin with her thumb, pulling his underlip with the curve of her nail. He caught her fingertip between his teeth, nipping fondly at it, his throat gurgling with a repressed laughter.

For a fragment of time, Morgana basked in the playful closeness that was tattooed all over their bodies, in their familiar teasing and physical bickering.

She knew it still drew some odd glances when they engaged in such behaviour in public: Gwaine and she barely pecked while in the company of others. Outside of their home, they silently touched, brushed against each other like casual bystanders. They did it subtly, only sometimes blatantly. It depended. They just did.

Arthur and Merlin had seen them kiss because they were all so used to being together that they often forgot they weren’t alone. They were a four-cornered harbour, a compass which never pointed North because there was no right direction, just a warm centre to envelop them as a whole.

The rest of the Round Table rarely saw them doing anything but bicker and fight. They didn’t know how often they held hands in Hyde Park or how they would end up dancing in the living room after a beer or two.

Gwaine kissed Morgana on her forehead and stretched towards the coffee table. He slipped off a cigarette from his packet and lit it distractedly.

“By the way, where’s your brother gone?”

“Gym.”

“Which is code word for?”

“Just gym.”

“Ah. I thought he was meeting with the Minister.”

“No that’s tomorrow.”

Gwaine hummed pensively. He shrugged and bit the filter tip with his teeth, excited.

“He’s really going for it, isn’t he?”

“He is going to take over the world,” Morgana agreed with ill-concealed pride.

“And you are not?”

“Are you joking? I’ll help him. He needs brains if he wants to keep his kingdom this time, and he certainly can’t count on his own,” she tittered.

“Yeah, right. That would bring forth the apocalypse. Again.”

“Camlann was more epic than apocalyptic,” Morgana argued pointedly.

“It turned Camelot into a legend.”

“Minor details.”

There were loads of things Gwaine and Morgana were allowed to do only when it was just the two of them. Reminiscing was one of the many. Jesting about bloodshed was another.

After all, there are only two ways to deal with trauma: crying, or laughing. They happened to do both together.

Gwaine took a drag on his cigarette and reiterated, “Fucking apocalypse. Judgment Day and ‘the dead will tread on earth again’ included.”

Morgana crinkled her nose and she stole the cigarette from his lips, taking a smoke herself.

“As I said, minor details.”

Gwaine snitched back the cigarette from her for the last time before she ostentatiously picked it from his teeth and deposited it in the ashtray, threads of smoke curling in the air.

Gwaine laughed and took her face with both hands, kissing her with his mouth open.

Morgana shrieked when he pushed her and made her fall against the pillows of the couch. He loomed over her like a flesh cage, securely trapping her under his weight.

It felt hot all over her skin, because Gwaine’s body was always freakishly warm and his long hair was at the sides of her face, blocking the tobacco-tinged air, but Morgana wouldn’t have wished to be anywhere else. She wound her legs around his hips and everything was just so hot, hot, _hot_ : Gwaine’s hands on her face and his chest pressing against her breasts, muscles and sinews rippling under fond fingers and chapped lips. And she loved the easiness with which they could go from zero to everything, so she let Gwaine peel off her sweater and move his hands to her bare breasts as he kissed her, her nipples getting turgid under the careful game of his fingers.

She didn’t hear the clank of the door, but she did hear Arthur’s petty lamentation.

“I’m hom– oh, my eyes, stop guys, my eyes!”

Gwaine indeed stopped kissing Morgana and clicked his tongue with frustration.

“Fuck off, sire,” he growled, mildly annoyed.

“Once you get away from my sister and recompose yourself!”

Gwaine grabbed one of the pillows under Morgana’s back and threw it at Arthur. Sadly, it didn’t collide with her brother’s face because he caught it with practiced ease.

He still pretended to cover his affronted eyes.

“Come on, guys. Have some decency. You have a room for that, do not taint the common spaces.”

“Said kettle,” Morgana muttered.

Arthur frowned and pointed at them.

“I’m not answering to that. Gwaine, you’re still on my sister.”

“And I’m not moving,” he said. “I like it very much here. Besides, the moment I do, she’ll tear my head off.”

“You bet I will. It’s better if _you_ go, Arthur. You’re an hour early, anyway.”

Gwaine chuckled and smirked at Morgana, “Oh, I don’t think an hour is going to be enough, milady.”

Arthur groaned, “I’m still here.”

“And whose fault is that?”

Morgana huffed, “Arthur, you have until three before I actually use magic on you. One, two…”

She didn’t see as much as _heard_ Arthur bolting, which would have been uncalled for, hadn’t her face screamed bloody murder.

“Close the door!” Gwaine cried out.

They heard a significant clunk.

Gwaine looked back at her, and his grin was so wild and just plain stupid, that her heart melted a little, a taste of sweetness among the laughter rising from her chest.

“Now, where were we?”

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

It was quite late and probably Arthur was still awake, but Morgana would definitely be already in bed and she was a very light sleeper. Plus, she had never got quite over her more maternal instincts and habits, always sleeping fitfully when the members of their weird family were out, so Merlin was extra careful when he came home that night and locked the door behind his back.

Merlin made his cautious way into the living room, hands stuck under his armpits to fight off the cold in his fingers.

To his great surprise, Gwaine wasn’t working on late-night files or pacing in the balcony while smoking a chain of nervous cigarettes: he was sitting on Arthur’s armchair, looking at the two sleeping Pendragons curled upon each other on the couch. At some point, Gwaine must have decided that they were cold, because their huge orange and red blanket, the largest they had in the house, was covering them tidily, and the two siblings looked like a couple of overgrown children, with their mouths slightly open as they slept peacefully.

Gwaine nodded at Merlin, a stupefied smile curving his lips.

“Look at these two idiots,” he whispered.

“How long have they been like this?”

“An hour. Perhaps two. I didn’t notice immediately.”

“And you’ve been watching for how long?”

“A while.”

Merlin choked down a chuckle. He scratched his cheek, the skin roughened by the beginning of a stubble. He had forgotten to shave that morning.

“Stupid Pendragons,” he murmured fondly. “They can’t even fall asleep properly.”

“They’re hopeless,” Gwaine agreed. “I guess that’s why we like them.”

“Should we take them to bed?”

Gwaine arched his eyebrow. He was beginning to really own that supercilious look that had always been Morgana’s sole exclusive.

“Well, I could take her just fine, but if you try to lift that muscle bunk there, you’ll sprain both your shoulders.”

Merlin was about to glare at him, but Arthur chose that moment to murmur something in his sleep, and it was all too tender and sweet: his boyfriend sleeping like a baby with a protective arm thrown around his sister’s shoulders, and some comical nonsense slipping from his mouth.

Merlin forgot the very poignant answer he had wanted to launch at Gwaine.

“I could make him levitate. I have magic, you know.”

“Wouldn’t he wake up?”

“Probably. It’d still be fun.”

“Just let them sleep.”

Merlin readjusted the blanket. Morgana whimpered softly but didn’t wake up. She hid her face deeper against Arthur’s chest and let out a contented sigh.

Merlin wondered what she was dreaming of, for she was always dreaming but he had no idea what type of things she would see while safely tucked away in Arthur’s embrace.

He asked himself, not for the first time, if things would have turned out differently, had Morgana sought Arthur’s protection instead of his and Gaius’s help. But that was a question with too hurtful an answer, and it belonged to lifetimes which were too distant and nebulous to have any use.

Merlin brushed a dark tendril away from her face and took a step back.

“Aren’t you worried?” he asked Gwaine, his voice lowered to a shadowy murmur. “About how close they are? They were never like this, not even before Morgause.”

Gwaine tilted his head.

“Are you?”

“What?”

“Worried.”

“No,” Merlin answered immediately, frowning, as if that were the stupidest idea ever.

Gwaine shrugged.

“Neither am I. Maybe I don’t know Morgana in the way you know Arthur and I still doubt I ever will, but I understand her, and she understands me. That’s how we work. We don’t need to know, we just… well, somehow we do know. She loves Arthur, and she would die for him. I respect that. I would die for him too.”

Merlin tried to bite his tongue. He tried, but he felt he needed to ask something more because, after all, Morgana’s blood was still on his hands, and ‘though he didn’t feel any shame, compassion was something he could still offer her.

“And for her?”

“I’m trying to stay alive for her.”

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

He was singing an old song his mother often murmured when she thought no one was listening. Her thick Irish brogue butchered the New York accent of the original artist and it slightly twisted the jazzy rhythm of the song into a melody which always sent Gwaine into a land of memories and crystal brooks.

His mother picked accents with an astounding ease: she could sound like her Killarney self on one day, if she happened to speak on the phone with her cousins for a couple of minutes, and then revert to a Dubliner lilt after tea with her brother-in-law, but she pertinaciously refused to acquire any accent which could remotely sound British.

It had always made Gwaine smile, her steadfast resolution to retain her origins even after two decades of living on the English soil: she brewed Irish tea, she cooked Irish stew, she swore in Gaelic like Gwaine’s great-grandfather had, and she talked with a thick, Irish accent.

Therefore, Gwaine himself often ended up singing her American song with an unmistakable touch of Irishness, if only because that was the way he had heard it most of the time.

He hadn’t actually realised he was singing it. Much like his mother, he happened to hum it mindlessly between chores and thoughts, when he was combing his hair, while he was working on an obstinate lock or cleaning and reassembling his gun.

Morgana arched her eyebrows sardonically.

“Out of love?” she teased him.

Gwaine looked away from the cylinder of his revolver and blinked, at loss.

Morgana folded her arms across her chest and smirked.

“That song you were singing. Out of love, sir Gwaine? I’m most dejected.”

He guffawed, his chest and throat drumming with the tempo of his own laughter.

“Never out, my lady. Always in.”

“Mine until the end of time?”

“If you so require.”

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

Morgana wished she had her cigarettes with her but, alas, she had thrown her last packet in the garbage bin two weeks before and hadn’t bought a new one since, so she resorted to playing with her lighter until her thumb got numb.

“Sorry, there was a malfunctioning with the Tube. Something around Blackfriars, I fear.”

Morgana glared at Lancelot as he sat on the metal chair in front of her, his brown puppy eyes full of contrition for being late.

“I don’t know why you refuse to get a driving licence.”

“I don’t like cars.”

She arched her eyebrows scornfully and moved her full attention to her herbal tea. The smell of lemongrass and vervain calmed her senses and she sipped quietly as Lancelot ordered a vanilla mocha for himself.

He smiled at her as he adjusted the cuffs of his shirt and loosened his tie a little bit.

“So, what’s the happy occasion?”

“Can’t I just have a coffee with one of my best friends?”

“You have Mithian and Gwen for that.”

“I said _best_ friends, not friends.”

Lance’s smile didn’t waver, but it curved softly around the edges.

“Is it about Arthur?”

Morgana clicked her tongue, vaguely picked.

“Not everything is about Arthur.”

“No, perhaps not,” he conceded.

“I just wanted to grab a coffee with you.”

“Okay.”

She started toying with her lighter again. Lancelot put two sugars in his mocha. He drank a scalding sip with baffling imperturbability. He didn’t speak.

“And…” she hemmed.

“Ah, there it is.”

Indeed. Morgana grimaced.

“Fine. I wanted to tell you something, and no one else knows yet, so…” she started to say, but she lost her breath along the way and rather bit her thumb just to occupy her mouth with something else than words.

Lancelot knitted his brow, “I’m looking at your face and I can’t tell if it’s a good thing or a bad thing.”

“You can decide. It might be good.”

“So?”

“It’s not about Arthur.”

She felt the need to clarify it. Just because.

“Okay,” Lancelot repeated encouragingly.

Morgana took a deep breath. Her fingers were shaking so she hid her hands under the table.

“I am pregnant,” she blurted out.

Lancelot stared blankly at her for a moment. Then he metabolised the information and his face brightened with the happiest smile.

“Really? This is a wonderful thing!” he exclaimed. “Unless you don’t want it?”

Morgana instinctively brought her hands in front of her belly.

“No, I do. I do want it,” she was quick to reply.

“And Gwaine?”

She massaged her stomach.

“We haven’t exactly talked about it. At some point, we just stopped preventing it,” she said, her fingers growing restless again.

Normally, she would busy them with a cigarette or by stirring the sugar in a cup of steaming English Breakfast. Now, she could only play with the silver chain of her bracelet.

“We haven’t discussed it. I guess we will have to.”

Lancelot chuckled, “Possibly. Is he home now?”

“Not yet. He’s coming back tonight.”

“Well, that’s a nice way of being welcomed home.”

“That depends on how jet-lagged he is. He might not even understand what I say.”

“Oh, he would understand this well enough.”

They laughed, and in the comforting familiarity of their shared mirth, Morgana found some courage to ask what she really wanted. She hesitated only a moment, the bright red of her lipstick fading slightly as she worried her lip with her teeth.

“If it’s a boy…” she began softly. “Lance, if it’s a boy I’d like to call him Galahad.”

Her friend tilted his head slightly, sliding his elbows forwards on the table.

“You don’t have to ask for my permission, you know,” he said calmly, the shadow of a gentle smile still resting on his face.

“In some ways, I do. It’s your family name, it’s your right. I don’t want to deprive you of it.”

Lancelot kept quiet for a moment, then he sighed, a tinge of bittersweet resignation on his breath.

“You know, those legends are a pile of shit.”

Morgana goggled at his word choice.

“Beg your pardon?”

“It’s true, they are, and it pains me to think about how much of our story got twisted throughout the centuries. The simple fact that they all forgot we were history once is enough to kill me. But there is one thing they got right: Gwen can’t have children.”

Morgana nodded, chagrined.

“I know. She’s never had any so I figured that part had to be true. But this is not a good reason for me to take that name for granted.”

“Morgana…”

“I’m just being sensible: medicine is doing wonders nowadays. And even if that turned out to be impossible, you could still adopt. You would be great parents.”

Lancelot smiled, “We are already discussing adoption. We have started checking the bureaucracy, to be honest. It seems feasible.”

“Of course it is. You’re the couple social workers dream of. You have money, you do charity, you’ve even got the white picket fence house.”

Lancelot chuckled, “You make it sound like we just need a dog and then the deal is sealed.”

“I’ll personally look for the best dog in the world if it serves the case.”

“Thank you, I know you would. But the point still stands: I would be honoured if you called your son Galahad.”

“You’re not saying it just because we’re friends?”

“No, I’m saying it because we are _best_ friends, and the father of your child is another of my best friends, so I couldn’t be any happier.”

Morgana sighed. Lancelot looked tenderly at her tormented fingers and reassured her, “Stop now. You will make a wonderful mother.”

She flattened her hands against her stomach. Usually, it took long before she started showing, but somehow she thought she could already perceive a fuller curve in her abdomen. It was probably a matter of autosuggestion, she knew it. Yet, she couldn’t help but cherishing that delicate illusion.

“I must be. This child will be the blood heir both of Camelot and Avalon. It’s unprecedented: before me, no Queen had ever given birth after the Coronation, and I’ve never had a child with someone like Gwaine, someone who had magic in his blood. I’m not sure what this will mean, but I must do my best both as a mother and as a Crown of Avalon.”

“You won’t be alone. You and Gwaine are already children of both worlds, even if he’s more of Camelot and you are more of Avalon. I’m sure you will manage just fine,” Lancelot encouraged her, his faith in the future almost disarming.

His gentle eyes and tactful smile reminded her of words which had occurred in a remote, gauzy past, on the shores of Avalon, when Morgana had still been erring around the borders of a precipice, so far away from redemption and forgiveness. Already on that occasion, Lancelot had offered her his time and a kind ear, had answered with generous understanding in front of her broken face.

She wondered if she would ever be able to repay all that kindness. If she could teach it to her child.

She dearly hoped so.

“Thank you, Lance.”

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

His phone rang early that morning. The sun had barely risen.

It wasn’t the black phone, the one he used in his every-day life. It was the grey one.

Gwaine cursed like a sailor for twenty whole seconds before answering with a groggy, tired voice.

Morgana listened to his curt assents and brisk acknowledgments. The knot in her stomach loosened when she heard Gwaine muttering Tristan’s name. She nearly chuckled when he muttered a tentative _“Izzy…”_ and Isolde chastised him with an extraordinarily venomous edge from the other end of the phone.

Still, worry coiled tightly around her heart when Gwaine sat up on the bed and he kissed her forehead before getting up on his feet. He slowly started getting dressed, picking a clean t-shirt from the wardrobe and blue socks from his drawer.

“Will you be long?” she asked to his turned back.

“Only if things go wrong.”

“And will they?”

Gwaine fastened his belt and went to her side, kneeling on the floor to be at her eye level.

“No, they won’t,” he promised.

He touched her cheeks and Morgana caressed his neck in return, fingers sinking into the soft locks of his hair. He nuzzled against her nose with a drowsy smile. “So wait for me, and I’ll be back.”

His kiss tasted of cigarettes and peppermint toothpaste. He had come to bed maybe two hours before, perhaps even less than that.

“Do you want coffee?”

“No. Go back to sleep. I’ll return before you can even miss me,” he grinned.

She started longing for him from the moment he went past the bedroom door.

Morgana rolled on her back, eyes to the ceiling. She put her hand on her stomach and started wondering.

She didn’t fall asleep again. She didn’t sleep at all for the next three days.

Then Gwaine came back.

“Missed me?”

“No.”  
“See? I told you so.”

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

Morgana brushed her teeth with vicious irritation after she finished throwing up her breakfast.

Of course Gwaine’s child would give her early morning sickness, because that man always had to find new, astonishing ways to be a bloody pain in the ass even when he wasn’t around.

She hated being sick, and morning sickness especially was the worst.

Arthur knocked on the door of her bathroom.

“Do I need to get you a ginger ale?”

Morgana spat the froth of toothpaste and saliva and she rinsed her mouth. She sighed and looked at the reflection of her brother in the mirror.

“I was going to tell you.”

“When?”

“Today. But the little menace decided to give me away before coffee was ready.”

“You shouldn’t be drinking coffee, anyway.”

“That’s why I was making it only for you, smartie.”

Arthur scoffed and sat on the border of the bathtub. Morgana pondered for a moment, and then she sat down on the floor, the marble tiles cooling pleasantly her too hot skin. She crossed her legs and rested her hands on her knees.

“I was really going to tell you today.”

“I believe you.”

“You are suspiciously chill. Should I expect you to freak out later?”

Arthur shook his head and smiled softly.

“Have you told Gwaine?”

“Not yet.”

“So I’m the first,” he assumed proudly.

Arthur felt a senseless surge of superiority whenever he happened to know something before everyone else. Merlin frequently said it was because, most of the time, he was the last one to know. Which was tragicomically true, in all fairness: last to know the prince and the duchess were filing for divorce, last to know Percival was dating, last to know Wales had murdered England in the Six Nations. Hell, last to know he himself was gay. And yes, they were all still teasing him about that.

Morgana sucked her lips, trying not to grimace.

“Almost first. I’ve talked to Lancelot.”

Arthur gasped with indignation, “You told Lancelot first? But I’m your brother!”

“There was something I needed to ask him.”

“What type of something?” he bristled.

“A name.”

Arthur hushed. Morgana saw a flicker of understanding flashing behind his gaze, and he seemed to slide into pensiveness. She reached for his hand. Arthur’s palm was warm and strong, his fingers gentle around hers. He clasped her hand with a cognizant firmness.

For a moment, Morgana wondered if her child would have Arthur’s eyes. She knew that they weren’t related, technically speaking, but life had always proved to have odd tricks hidden in her sleeve, so her child might verily look at the world through Pendragon’s eyes, not huge and distant like hers, but rather resolute and grounded like Arthur’s.

“I needed a few days for myself,” she explained. She didn’t apologise, for she didn’t see any need for apologies, but she wanted her brother to know. To understand. “It’s still early, perhaps much too early. But I needed to comprehend how I felt about it. And then, after I spoke with Lance, I guess I just wanted to enjoy this feeling on my own for a little longer.”

Arthur nodded. He played with her fingers, running his blunt nails on the back of her hand as he had used to do when they were children.

“And now?”

“Now I’m telling you. And I’m ready to let others know.”

“Besides Lance, you mean.”

Morgana snorted, “Yes, besides Lance.”

“Good.”

“You’re not hurt, are you? Even if I told Lancelot first.”

“No, of course I’m not. And I still got to know it before the father,” he grinned.

“You’ve always got to know it before the father. It’s almost a tradition by now.”

Arthur shrugged, “Every family needs some.”

Morgana sighed wearily. Her stomach stung uncomfortably and there was a muffled buzzing in her ears. She should probably try and eat again, but the mere thought provoked her a new wave of nausea.

She didn’t actually know if she was _that_ ready to be pregnant, after all. There was so much she hadn’t planned, that she hadn’t thought through.

“I’m sorry, Arthur.”

Her brother frowned, confused.

“About what?”

“I never gave you a child.”

Arthur clenched his jaw, the straight line of his shoulders suddenly stiff. Yet, his hand around hers remained delicate, and he looked at Morgana with tender eyes.

“You did.”

“But–”

“No. I can accept no buts on this. He is…”

The air choked in his lungs, and he swallowed painfully.

“He _was_ my son,” he corrected himself with a pang of anguish. “I raised him and I loved him. I don’t care for anything else. He was all I could ever ask for. He was even more.”

Arthur smiled with bitter fondness, his gaze sliding to their joined hands. “My brat. If I should ever thank you for just one thing, Morgana, it would be letting me be his father. I had never thought I could have so much before him.”

Morgana inhaled awkwardly.

She remembered a white and grey building, people wearing green uniforms and speaking with a foreign accent which had used to be familiar to her. Her sight turned glassy and she blinked stubbornly before the tears welling up at the corners of her eyes could escape her control.

“We’ll need a bigger house,” she breathed shakily.

Arthur nodded.

“I can leave you the flat. I know you love it.”

She shook her head, voicing her disapproval, “Arthur, there is no way Gwaine and I are raising this child without you and Merlin.”

“You should ask for Gwaine’s opinion first.”

“This is literally the only thing about our future that we have already discussed: we are not leaving your side ever again. Merlin will need some help in keeping you alive. The poor thing can’t always do it all on his own.”

Realization seemed to dawn upon Arthur all of a sudden, because he opened his eyes wide and cursed loudly, “Shit. We need to revise our plans.”

“Why ever?”

“Because obviously Merlin and I are not having children, so your child will be my only heir. We can’t risk his safety. Or hers.”

“Seriously, Arthur?” Morgana deadpanned. “The moment this baby comes into the world, the whole Round Table will be fighting for their turn to babysit. I think your heir is safe enough.”

Arthur didn’t listen to her and continued, “We should call Rosie.”

“You don’t need to bother Merlin’s foster kid. She’s rather long in the tooth, anyway.”

“She’s very spirited,” he argued.

“Oh, I know. I’ve met her, remember? Merlin will already be bad influence enough, so let’s not worsen it.”

“Merlin isn’t bad influence.”

“He’s a vegetarian,” Morgana quipped.

“It’s just a phase.”

“He’s been since the Fifties.”

Arthur had the good grace of grimacing.

“It’s a very long phase.”

“You are going to be a terrible, terrible uncle, Arthur Pendragon.”

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

When Gwaine arrived home, they were sitting at the kitchen isle and Morgana was holding a cup of chamomile tea, sipping quietly as she listened to Arthur rambling about private schools and sport clubs. It was her day off, after all, so she didn’t have much else to do. Arthur, on the other hand, had simply decided to ditch work and stay with her for the rest of the day. He had left only for an hour to buy her a dozen of cans of much-needed ginger ale.

Gwaine abandoned his bag on the floor and discarded the jacket on the nearest chair.

“Hi, did I interrupt?”

Morgana blinked, an amused line carved between her knitted eyebrows.

“Yes, in fact, you did. We were bonding over Arthur’s future as an uncle.”

“Ah, his future…” Gwaine staggered, befuddled. He was still smiling, clearly glad to be finally home after a long day. Then the smile slowly washed away from his face as he caught the hidden meaning.

“Well, _fuck_ ,” he commented plainly.

“That was how it happened, yes,” Morgana smirked.

Arthur let out a discomfited growl.

“Why did you have to say it?”

Morgana tittered, her lips curling into a satisfied grin.

Gwaine just stared at the two of them, then he shifted his focus on Morgana, his face still a weird valley of incredulous impassiveness.

“I’m going to fight the cliché so I won’t ask if it’s mine,” he asserted.

Morgana nodded and drank her chamomile.

“Good, because I would hate for our child to grow up fatherless.”

Gwaine opened his mouth, about to say something. He paused mutely and closed it. Then he opened it again, a curious peak in his voice.

“Have you already told Leon?”

Morgana frowned.

“No.”

Gwaine finally grinned with silly excitement. “Great, because I _so_ want to see his face when I tell him I’m going to be a father. I’ll ask Mithian to take pictures. Bet it could make the first page of any newspaper.”

“Only of very cheap newspapers, I fear.”

Gwaine laughed and he reached her with one long stride. He held her face in his hands and rested his nose on the crown of her head, laughter reverberating in his throat and chest.

Arthur smiled disbelievingly as he watched his friend closing his eyes and kissing Morgana on her forehead, a slow, tender gesture in which she drowned safely.

Arthur silently rose from his chair and left them alone to bask in that moment on their own.

He caught a flying _“Love you”_ whispered against Morgana’s hair as he closed the door, and his sister’s enamoured answering chuckle.

When Morgana tilted her chin upwards and met with Gwaine’s eyes, his face lit up with the most hopeless, idiotic smirk she had ever seen, and maybe, just maybe, her very soul went ablaze with tenderness.

“I’m going to be a father,” he whispered, shocked.

“Apparently.”

He kept on smiling, kept on holding her with calloused, trembling fingers sunken in her hair.

“I’ll be the worst father ever. You’ll divorce me after year two.”

Morgana reproached him gleefully, “I can’t divorce you, Gwaine. We are not married.”

“See? I’m so bad I’ve forgotten to marry the mother of my child. I swear, Morgana, what were you thinking?”

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

They fell asleep in a sweaty entanglement of limbs and bedsheets, one of Gwaine’s thighs trapped between her legs, and her head resting comfortably on his chest, her ear pressed against his heartbeat, listening to that fallacious rhythm Morgana had learned to respect. Gwaine’s steady breath lulled her to sleep peacefully, one of his hands still knotted between her dark ringlets and her arms cradling him soothingly into a sapid slumber.

Morgana wasn’t too surprised when she opened her eyes and found herself in the spacious lightness of the throne hall in Avalon.

She ran towards Freya, hugging her joyfully. The young girl laughed and returned Morgana’s embrace just as tightly.

“I missed you, sister.”

“I missed you too.”

Freya showed her the opened gates to the Underworlds. They walked past the golden bridge which connected Avalon to Mag Mell, its extreme end engulfed in sparkling vapours of silver, hiding the nether land from the view. They talked about Nimueh and of the guardian spirits Ygraine was rearing, of the boats sailing from the Lake into the fogs of the living world.

Morgana picked a dog rose from the creeping brambles at the feet of the tower. A drop of blood trickled down her finger. She watched it as it fell on the grass.

“Freya, where is my mother?”

“Away, in Mag Mell.”

“Is she well?”

“She is. She is looking after someone.”

Morgana arched her eyebrow, “I didn’t think she had it in her to nurture souls.”

“This one is a special soul. Do you wish to call her?”

“No. Let her be. Just… could you tell her something for me?”

“Of course.”

“Tell her I think I understand now. I don’t agree with what she did, but I forgive her. Please, tell her.”

“I will.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh, the irony of Arthur uttering the “it’s just a phase” line.  
> I remember seeing a backstage video of the first season of Merlin where Katie McGrath and Bradley James were joking about being vegetarians. I thought it would be cute to beckon it.  
> The song that Gwaine and his mother sometimes sing is Fallin’ by Alicia Keys. I don’t know why, I just thought Gwaine’s mom would like it. I’m actually a little sad I never wrote about her: in my mind, she’s a lovable, tough-as-steel woman, probably the only person in the world fit to put up with Gwaine’s shit as a kid. I should try to sneak her in before the end.  
> Usual trivia: most of the legends say that Guinevere was barren and so Arthur had no legitimate heir except for Mordred, the bastard son he had with Morgause. Who was, you know, Arthur’s half-sister. And evil.  
> In the Arthurian tradition, Galahad was Lancelot’s son: Lady Elaine – yes, it was a very popular name at the time, I know – of Corbenic tricked Lancelot into sleeping with her and giving her a child. Although the circumstances of his birth were definitely shady, Galahad grew up noble and strong and he was the purest knight in Camelot, knighted by Lancelot himself. He sat on the Siege Perilous of the Round Table, also known as the Perilous Seat, the vacant seat which Merlin had reserved for the one knight who would succeed in finding the Holy Grail. There are some versions in which Percival sat on the Perilous Seat, but it’s usually seen more frequently as Galahad’s rightful place.  
> I’ve always found very sad that king Arthur didn’t have an heir and that his only son would be his murderer. I care for Arthur really much, he was one of my childhood heroes, and the character of the tv-show is such a charismatic and sweet boy, I just… I guess I started this fan fiction with the purpose of writing shameless, smutty romance, but I ended up talking about families and how they are created. I really should have seen this coming.


	15. The Holy Grail

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh my God, we've reached the end.  
> I'm getting emotional. I need a cigarette. A cup of tea.  
> I think I'm gonna cry. Just, you know, one tiny virile tear of pure emotion, Dean Winchester style.

Gwaine woke up feeling too hot in his t-shirt, half suffocating because at some point during his sleep, he had buried his face in Morgana’s hair.

He wriggled his arm out of the hot protection of the bedsheets and looked critically at the offending piece of bedding: they were Morgana’s favourite bedspreads. The red shade was so pale it appeared suspiciously like pink, and Gwaine heartily despised that colour, but the fabric was so smooth and soft that he only crinkled his nose disapprovingly when he was sure Morgana couldn’t see him, and then proceeded to snuggle under the bedsheets like a happy baby in need of a nap.

He rubbed his hand on Morgana’s naked arm. Under the covers, she was wearing only a silk shift and nothing else. He could feel her legs bare against his, the curve of her bum pressed against his groin.

He was already half-hard, arousal prompted by the nebulous recollection of a good dream, the welcoming warmth of her body an invitation to hunt down an early morning pleasure.

Gwaine caressed her stomach, feeling it flat under his palm. Morgana had assured him she often didn’t show until the fifth month, which was good because it bought them time to decide about whom and when to tell.

Gwaine kept her in place as he ground his hips against her lithe frame. He chanted her name huskily behind closed eyelids and realised she was slowly waking up as she began to arch against him, following his lead.

Morgana purred softly, a halfway sound between a moan and a sigh, and she called for him. Gwaine drew her body closer and slid over her, nudging her gently to lay on her stomach as he pulled down his boxers, her hands at each side of the pillow. Morgana raised her hips to meet with his groin and he slipped his hand between them, under the watery fabric of her shift, lifting the hem up the small of her back.

“Open your legs, love,” he whispered to her, his voice muffled by her heavy locks. She did, and he slid inside her, a satisfied growl gargling from his chest as he kissed the crown of her head.

He took her slowly, balancing the upper half of his body on his elbows, holding both her hands with his calloused fingers. Their hips rose and collided in a steady, comforting motion, their breaths growing raspier and more erratic under the shape of a somnolent smile.

Morgana whimpered underneath him and she opened her legs further, propping herself up her knees to let him sheathe his cock deeper into her. Gwaine wound his arm around her stomach, pulling her closer as he quickened their rhythm and guided her warmly into her climax, his own orgasm reaching him just one step later. He bit his own lips viciously, the tang of blood on the tip of his tongue as he choked down a satiated moan.

Morgana collapsed on the bed, face pressed on her pillow. Gwaine rolled onto his side and held her hand. With her free one, she moved a dark tendril away from her cheek so she could smile at him from behind the curtain of her hair.

“Good morning, anyway.”

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

“You two should get married.”

Morgana put down her cup – chamomile tea was her sole comfort those days – and she arched her eyebrows.

“Seriously, Arthur?”

“It’s the proper thing to do.”

Yes, she had heard that argument before. Several times, actually. From her father. Her very old-fashioned father who was giving her Hell because, “ _I didn’t smuggle that dress only to keep it in a wardrobe”_.

She hadn’t expected Arthur, of all people, to bring that up, though. In hindsight, she should have seen that coming.

“People don’t need to be married to have children,” she deadpanned archly.

“No, but it’s the right thing to do,” her brother repeated emphatically.

Morgana scoffed and turned to Gwaine, “Do you feel like getting married?”

He shrugged, uninterested.

“Do you?”

“I asked you first.”

“And I asked back.”

Merlin snorted in his cup of tea, and Arthur just grunted.

“You two are the most impossible people ever.”

Gwaine laughed, “Try and imagine how we would be as a married couple.”

Morgana cackled and she clicked her tongue, looking pointedly at her brother, “Are you so sure marriage would be the right thing to do, after all? Think of the seventh year crisis. We would be unbearable.”

Merlin grinned, “You and Gwaine are already married, anyway. You just don’t know it.”

“Nah, I would remember asking her,” Gwaine disagreed.

Morgana scowled and pinched his arm.

“Now, now. Who said it’s you that should do the asking? It’s not the Middle Ages anymore.”

“Because I know you want me to ask nicely.”

Morgana stilled and looked at Gwaine’s meaningful grin with a shock of emotion careening inside her chest.

It was so casual, so careless, his remark of an old dream they had shared together almost three years before. It blazed vividly in that secret thing they had built, in the simplicity and thoughtlessness with which they could remind each other of how they were forever intertwined, embedded into one another, without anyone else noticing just how deeply their bond had taken roots. Fingers sunken into mind, dreams, and souls.

It made Morgana smile.

“Any ideas?”

“I could start with being on my knees, for example,” he suggested, but he said that with a mischievous grin which offered rather a ‘while between your legs’ continuation, and she snorted and slapped him on the shoulder.

Arthur grumbled morosely, “I feel like I’m missing something and I should probably be thankful for that.”

Gwaine laughed again and threw his arm around Morgana’s waist, pulling her closer. His fingers brushed against her swelling belly and she decided at that moment, because of that light touch, that she would marry Gwaine, after all. One day. After he asked nicely.

Meanwhile, keeping her brother and her father on tenterhooks would be harmless fun.

“What is this thing with marriage, anyway? If you want to wear a tuxedo so badly, just marry Merlin.”

Arthur blinked. Then he looked at Merlin. Then again at Morgana.

“You know what? I think I might,” he uttered resolutely.

Merlin crossed his arms and gave him a withering look.

“Arthur, if that was a true proposal, it was shitty, so I’m not marrying you.”

“It’s okay. I’ll think of something. Just wait for it.”

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

“Daddy, you don’t need to help us move in, we can manage pretty fine.”

Gwen held Morgana’s pursue as her friend searched for the car keys, one of her hands already keeping her phone firmly glued to her ear.

“Well, obviously Lance and Gwen will help us.”

Lancelot cocked an eyebrow and eyed quizzically at Gwen.

“Will we?”

“Well, they helped us moving in last year. I thought it would be good form to return the favour.”

Her husband shrugged, easily defeated.

“I’m not touching Merlin’s books, though.”

“No one’s touching Merlin’s books,” Morgana intruded, looking up from her pursue to frown pointedly. “If he has to be a pain about his bookcases, then he ought to deal with them himself. Yeah, no, daddy, seriously, you have no idea how hydrophobic he can get about those books.”

She paused. Her frown deepened.

“That’s not the same thing! I’m hanging up now! No. No, daddy. I have to go, anyway.”

She closed the call with an angry scowl.

Gwen tilted her head.

“What did he say?”

“He reminded me of the one time I slapped my cousin Máire.”

“Why did you?”

“She had creased a page of my favourite book.”

“That’s…” Lancelot stopped himself when he caught sight of Morgana’s belligerent face. “ _Understandable_.”

Gwen giggled, “Nice save, honey.”

Morgana dangled her car keys in front of his eyes.

“Hurry up, lovebirds. The shelter is closing in two hours and you want your future kid to grow up with the best dog ever.”

“I still don’t believe a dog would make the adoption process get any faster.”

“No harm in trying, though.”

“What if our child will be allergic to dogs?”

“Lance, don’t be a drag.”

“Morgana could probably fix that with her magic,” Gwen reasoned.

“Of course I could. See? That’s the right attitude. Learn from your wife, sir knight.”

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

Morgana crouched on the soft rug and watched Gwaine sleep. He was resting on his right side, his arm folded under his head. She traced a waxy, circular bullet scar on his shoulder with her fingertips. All his cuts were fully healed, no hints of bruises anywhere on his body except for a blue spot on his left hand, where he had distractedly bumped against the door on the previous day.

Someone in the higher ranks probably knew they were expecting, Morgana mused, because it had been a while since Gwaine had been sent on long-term missions. Nowadays he did quick, clean jobs, mostly intel work, or he coordinated the field units from afar.

Once, Gwaine hadn’t been one much for strategy or planning, but he had picked up the skill along the way.

It was a relief for Morgana: she had thoroughly avoided saying it aloud, but in the last years, as his wounds got nastier and his night departures more frequent, she had lived in fear. Of receiving anonymous phone calls. Of commemorating an empty coffin. Of closing her eyes and discovering their only meeting point could be an immortal isle across a plumbeous lake.

Gwaine moaned in his sleep, and a couple of childish murmurs slipped from his mouth.

He was trying to give up smoking now that Morgana was pregnant. However, his breath still smelled faintly of cigarettes because he couldn’t renounce his midnight drag just yet. It was his only remaining ritual, like Morgana’s cup of white tea before going to bed.

They were both sleeping more soundly those days. Perhaps for her it was merely a consequence of the natural exhaustion brought by pregnancy, perhaps it was Gwaine’s steady breath lulling in her ears as he too slept peacefully beside her.

She kissed him on the lips.

“Wake up, sleepy head.”

“Nope,” he drawled.

“Yes.”

She leaned a little bit forward and moved away a lock of hair to kiss his neck. She bit softly at his pulse, and Gwaine moaned pleasantly, bringing his hand to her head.

“You’re evil. Let me sleep.”

“You don’t want to sleep.”

“Yes, I do.”

Morgana tittered, “No, you don’t.”

“I love sleeping.”

“You love sleeping with me.”

“That too.”

“Come on, get up.”

He reluctantly rolled off the bed, refusing to open his eyes. Morgana took him by the hand, chuckling, and he followed her blindly as she guided him to the shower.

“Might as well come in with me,” he said as she started the jet of hot water.

“I was planning to.”

“Good.”

“Gwaine?”

“Yeah?”

“I’m not undressing you.”

“You usually have no qualms about it.”

“Idiot.”

He finally opened his eyelids and stripped down, watching with a sleepy smile as Morgana discarded her nightgown on the floor and they both stepped into the shower.

On any other day, they would have ended up having sex, because sex under the shower was fun and sensual, and it implied a different type of intimacy which they usually liked, but on that specific Saturday morning, Gwaine hugged Morgana and he held her as the water heated and washed over them. They simply stood in silence, comfortably warmed up by the rivulets running down their bodies, Gwaine’s arms around her and his hands resting on the small of her back, Morgana’s forehead touching his left shoulder as she let the water inundate her hair and carry away the smell of sweat and died out perfume.

At some point, they moved and kissed slowly, and they started playing with their hands across each other’s bodies, but that was all. The flower-scented foam of shampoo and soap pooled around their feet and then drained away while Morgana moved her fingers on Gwaine’s scalp to rinse his hair. He didn’t really care for conditioner and other hair products, hated wasting time to wash them off, but the circular massage on his head was pleasant and soothing, so he suffered through Morgana’s attentive haircare stoically. He busied his own hands by caressing the soft curve of her hips, now slightly fuller and tenderer than usual.

Gwaine glimpsed at the small swell of her belly, and he couldn’t help a smile from curving his lips. He silently rubbed his palms on her stomach, his touch sliding lower to cover the convex shape that was gradually starting to show.

Morgana thought he looked peaceful. Serene.

When he knelt down to kiss the curve of her belly, she had to bite her lips to stop herself from crying a bit.

He looked up at her, hands still protectively curved against her bump.

“Do you think he can feel me?”

“Yes, I think he does.”

“He’s probably wondering who’s this nag that keeps bothering him.”

Morgana laughed.

“I’m sure he loves this particular nag. You’re his father.”

“I’ve never been a father before,” he muttered with a worried crease of his lip.

“You’ll learn.”

She took him by the shoulders and prompted him out of the shower. They dripped water all over the floor tiles as they reached for robes and towels.

Gwaine later sat on their bed to let Morgana comb and dry his hair.

He was perfectly capable of doing it on his own, but she enjoyed taking care of it. She liked weaving her fingers through it to style it in an artfully dishevelled fashion, so that was why he let her do it more often than not. He hungered for every kind of touch from her, anyway, so he never complained too much.

She usually hummed songs in old, foreign languages as she toyed with his hair, memories of her past lives brimming from her voice at the rhythm of Welsh ballads and French lullabies. Sometimes, he answered in kind with folk songs his nana had taught him when he was a kid. Sometimes, he just kept quiet and tried to decipher Morgana’s melodies under the noise of the hairdryer.

Once she was done, Gwaine grabbed her hips and pulled Morgana towards him. She compliantly sat on his legs, hazy satisfaction in the lines of her face.

“Is this how married life feels like?” he asked her.

“Sometimes. If you’re very lucky.”

“We should give it a go one of these days.”

Morgana smiled lazily.

“We’ll see. Just remember to ask nicely.”

He kissed her nose.

“Yes, ma’am.”

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

“Can we get a dog too?” Merlin wailed.

“Why ever? We already have Gwaine.”

Gwaine spat his coffee in the sink, “Hey! I’m the father of your child, have some respect!”

Morgana rested her chin on her closed fist and eyed him mutedly, daring him to say something more.

Gwaine scowled.

“I hate hormonal you. She’s mean.”

Merlin pouted pitifully, “Come on. Dogs are great, and they’re wonderful for children. Isn’t that why Lance and Gwen got one?”

“No, _I_ got them one so they wouldn’t spend their time stressing about procedures instead of living their lives to the fullest while they wait for a chance to adopt.”

“But dogs are great.”

“Cats are better.”

“I’m allergic to cats. I’m not allergic to dogs.”

“Your problem, not mine. You should fix it, anyway.”

“Morgana!” the warlock begged.

Morgana cackled.

The baby was kicking inside her belly. She glimpsed at Gwaine and he caught the joyful glint in her eyes. He finished rinsing the coffee mug and walk towards her.

“We could get one of those wolfdogs. They’re fecking amazing,” he suggested, standing behind her chair.

He casually rested his hand on her belly, and the baby kicked towards the warm touch of his father.

Morgana’s smile widened.

“You’ve been rewatching _Game of Thrones_ with Arthur, haven’t you?”

“Winter is coming, love.”

He said it with such gravity that she almost forgot it was the middle of summer. He was really too much into that show. One would think that after seeing real dragons, CGI wyverns would seem just plain tacky.

She grabbed Gwaine’s hand and kept it pressed against her belly.

“Perhaps we can think about it. After the baby is born.”

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

Morgana blinked confusedly, gradually taking in the clash of foreign sounds and the formal smell of disinfectant and paper tunics. She was uncomfortable in her bed, the linens were too rough against her sensitive skin, and she could hear the footsteps of the nurses out in the corridor, walking to and fro and checking the other women in their rooms.

Morgana hated hospitals with a passion: they crawled with activity and fears, and the stench of death and sickness was so embedded in the walls that no antibacterial detergent could ever wash it away.

She lifted herself a little higher up on the mattress, grimacing when the stitches on her lower abdomen sent her a tiresome reminder of the caesarean she had just undergone.

She scowled, irritated. Tired. There was probably some residue of anaesthesia pumping in her veins because she felt vaguely ill and her head was spinning.

She wanted to see her son.

Her room was dark and the lights were turned off, so it must have been night already, but Morgana was pretty certain she could convince the nurses to bring her to her baby despite the late hour.

She was jittery: she had never given birth in a hospital before. Even with Ywain, her waters had broken while she was at her parents’ house, and her mother and her aunt couldn’t drive so her son had been born in her childhood home, her mom and aunt Louise the only medical assistance she had needed. Before that, in her previous lives, hospitals hadn’t really been a thing.

Dear God, she was tired. Weary. But she had seen her baby for such a short time, held him just long enough to fall in love with the warm weight of his tiny little body and the bumptious shape of his upper lip. She craved to see him again. Perhaps–

She groaned and turned her head: Gwaine was sleeping fitfully on the small plastic chair next to her bed, his arms crossed uncomfortably and his chin lolling against his chest.

Seeing his roguish, knackered face had the unexpected power to pacify her.

Poor man. Morgana had never seen him as pale as when she had cried for him from the bathroom, terrorised by the blood that had been leaking between her legs. To be fair, she had felt a surge of panic herself.

Morgana remembered the blinding, flabbergasted smile that had lit Gwaine from within when the nurse had put their newborn son in his arms. It was such a fun thing, so typical of him that he would look boyish at the moment when he officially became a father. Deathlessly young and carefree as he had never had the chance to be before.

He was going to be a good father.

Morgana glanced towards the door as she heard quiet footsteps approaching. A tall, sturdy figure blocked the entry, shading the faint light that intruded from the corridor.

“You’re here, daddy?” she whispered, surprised.

“I’m here,” he replied softly.

“Have you gone to see him?”

Her father nodded.

“He’s beautiful, isn’t he?” she asked.

“He’s perfect,” her father agreed with devoted pride.

Morgana closed her eyes, smiling. She rubbed her belly, feeling so strange now that it was empty at last, flattened by the absence of her little son. Oh, she hated that part, when she couldn’t reach for the child inside her at any given moment.

“Our perfect baby boy,” she murmured.

Her father went to hold her hand. She felt his warm fingers between hers, the solid, soothing plain of his huge palm enveloping her smaller hand.

“You named him Galahad.”

Morgana hummed.

“He’s our child from the Lake,” she explained softly.

Her father snorted, pensive.

She didn’t try to take it back. She could still blame the anaesthesia for any weird thing she might say.

“Your boyfriend there gave me quite a fright when he called, you know. I thought you weren’t due until next week.”

“Yeah well, that’s what we all thought. The little menace was of a different advice.”

“Merlin told me Arthur almost passed out.”

Morgana chuckled.

“He scares easily when I’m involved.”

“He’s not the only one,” her father said. “Your boy–”

“Gwaine,” she corrected him.

“Gwaine,” he conceded. Then he continued, gently, “He called right away and told me what had happened. He fell asleep just a couple of minutes ago, you know. He wanted to be with you when you woke up.”

“He’s a good man.”

“Yes. I suppose you chose him well.”

“Glad to know you approve.”

“Now, don’t go too far. I can’t approve of any man who’s taking my baby girl from me.”

Morgana giggled. She thought she heard Gwaine mumbling some drowsy nonsense. He must have been exhausted.

She fell back asleep with a content sigh, feeling loved. Protected.

Her father was still holding her hand.

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

“I told his old man this was the worst time to go visiting his folks, but did he listen? Of course he didn’t!”

Gwaine laughed at the computer screen. The sound was a little bit disturbed, the internet connection of the hospital too weak to permit a decent Skype call, but the vexation radiating from his mother’s voice was fairly detectable.

“Don’t worry, Mum. We’ll still be here when you come back.”

“I didn’t retire from MSF to miss the birth of my first grandson!”

“First and only,” Morgana whispered subtly, eliciting a mischievous chuckle from him.

“Well, it wasn’t anything spectacular, except for the part where Morgana scared us all out of our wits.”

“You say it like it was my fault. You have your son to blame for that,” she rebuked, slightly peeved.

Gwaine’s mother sighed and turned to someone at her side, just outside of the screen space.

“They’re already doing the your-son thing, Richard. I told you, I’m going home.”

“ _Aoife, cut them some slack._ ”

Gwaine stretched his legs on the hospital bed and balanced the laptop on his thighs.

“Seriously, Mum. We’re fine here, you don’t have to worry.”

“Oh, I do worry. Especially now that you had this great idea of having a child of your own!”

His mother addressed Morgana with a pragmatic frown. “I’ve been praying to the Virgin Mary that the baby takes after you: Gwaine was terrible. Downright terrible. He is still terrible.”

He snorted, “Jesus! Thank you, Mum. I’ve never felt so loved.”

Morgana elbowed him and giggled mirthfully, “I don’t know how much of an improvement that’d be. Daddy still claims I’m the cause of all his grey hair.”

“Nonsense,” Aoife cheered up. “You’re an absolute sweetheart. Just the fact that you put up with my son speaks volumes.”

Gwaine’s father peeped out from the corner of the screen, his bald temples and auburn curls a deep contrast to his wife’s messy, dark bun.

“Your mother’s got a point.”

Gwaine huffed, “I’ve just become a father, can’t we all celebrate without you picking up on me?”

“Son, I have only begun. It would prove good exercise for the time when your child starts to speak, believe me.”

“You’re portraying a life of Hell. You can’t know it.”

His mother tutted, “As a matter of fact, we do.”

“Maybe your friend Arthur would be good influence enough,” his father mused. “He’s a sound lad, that one.”

Gwaine scowled. The princess couldn’t find his arse on his best days. He would rather hand Galahad to Lancelot: now, _that_ was a good influence. Water people were a good influence.

He thought about ending the call.

“Folks, I tell you: you’re terrible at being grandparents. You should learn from Paul.”

Morgana cocked an eyebrow, “You do know that you’re still on shaky grounds with him, right? He’s upset you didn’t marry me.”

“Damn right he is!” Gwaine’s father agreed.

“ _I_ didn’t?” Gwaine scowled harder. He gestured at Morgana dramatically. “ _She_ ’s the one who refused when I proposed.”

“Ah. We didn’t know that.”

Morgana shrugged innocently, a small pout on her face. At that moment, she looked so kissable that Gwaine’s lips twitched.

“He didn’t ask nicely enough,” she smirked haughtily.

Damn. He didn’t want to kiss her in front of his folks: he had just that little shred of decency left. A scrap, really

He ended the call hastily and closed his laptop.

Morgana’s lips felt warm and soft against his.

  

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

Morgana drifted away. She swam in lukewarm, familiar waters, the current helping her through the curtain of fog and past the twinkling, insidious whispers of the Sidhe.

When she opened her eyes, she was holding Galahad in her arms and Freya was there beside her. Nimueh was present too, but the former Crown didn’t come close. She respected the privacy of that moment: the child was the son of her nephew, but she knew he was part of a world she hadn’t built. A world she had, in fact, nearly destroyed.

Morgana marvelled at the innocent lines and curves of Galahad’s face, basking in the soft wrinkles around his minuscule wrists, in the calm sound of his breathing.

Freya craned her neck, her hands folded neatly together like in a prayer.

“Can I see him?” she murmured.

“Yes.”

Morgana brushed her finger on Galahad’s cheek in a delicate caress before angling her arms so that her sister could take a better look.

He was so small, so vulnerable. Her heart throbbed for the endlessness of the love she felt.

Morgana had loved her children, each and all of them, sons and daughters, even the ones begotten with much-despised husbands. She still loved them and harboured their memories lovingly and jealously in her heart, but that was only the second time she had given her child a name of Albion, and the first time she had chosen a name of Camelot.

“Do you want to hold him?” she said.

Freya gasped, dumbstruck.

“Can I?”

“You should.”

Freya stretched out tentative arms and Morgana laid her baby securely in his aunt’s embrace.

“There, just like this,” she encouraged her.

Freya held him close to her chest, her eyes bright with unshed tears.

“He’s so tiny,” she whispered, astounded.

Morgana nodded.

“You can come closer, Nimueh. I promise we won’t bite.”

The former Queen of Hemlock cackled. She appeared serene.

“I’d rather keep my distance for now. I was only curious to see what kind of child my nephew could father. I’m surprised he’s already pretty: usually, newborn babies look awkward,” she jeered.

“Clearly, he takes after me.”

“Clearly,” Nimueh laughed. “I will tell Anna she can put her heart at peace, if you allow. She was so very anxious about your little brat.”

“You are allowed.”

Nimueh grinned and offered a curt bow before disappearing. The remnants of the laughter she left behind sounded mocking and omniscient, but Morgana simply shook her head, unfazed.

“Such excitement about such a small baby,” she commented fondly, her fingers tracing the little relief of Galahad’s nose.

Her sister smiled.

“Well, we were all waiting for him. He is the last soul of Camelot.”

Galahad stirred disquietly and for a brief, panicked instant, Freya stilled. Then she cradled him cautiously, and Galahad slipped back into a more profound sleep.

“Of Camelot? More like London. Or Ireland, seeing where Gwaine and I were born this time,” Morgana joked.

Freya hummed.

“No. Camelot is alive again. Because of you, because of all of you, it’s reborn. Galahad is the last piece, the one we missed the first time: a child both of Avalon and Camelot, whose parents are both of Avalon and Camelot.”

“Gwaine and I are Arthur’s.”

“Yes, and your son will be the one who follows, always and forever. He is blessed.”

Morgana’s hands trembled.

“Isn’t that too much to put on his shoulders?”

“His lineage is strong. Trust your blood, Morgana. Trust your son.”

“Ygraine talked to you,” Morgana deduced.

Freya beamed and nodded. “She saw what’s ahead. You don’t need to fear.”

“I don’t,” Morgana retorted. “I won’t let any harm come to him. No one’s hurting my child this time.”

Her little sister let out a sympathetic sigh. She leaned forwards, carefully, and she returned Galahad to his mother’s protective arms.

Morgana kissed his head. His hair was fair and sparse, but it would grow darker and thicker with time. _He_ would grow. He would be safe. She would make sure of it.

“Ywain is safe too, Morgana.”

Morgana fretted.

“He is?”

Galahad whimpered against her breast and Morgana forced herself to calm down. It wasn’t easy: her breath was coming out with difficulty, and she felt her arms betraying her with the lightest touch of thrills.

“Yes. He is in Mag Mell now.”

“Even if he didn’t believe?”

“In the end, he did. Your mother made sure of it.”

Morgana blinked disbelievingly.

“Vivienne? What of her?”

“She knew how much he means to you, so she took care of him. She accompanied Ywain along all the way.”

“So my son is safe? He’s really safe?”

“Yes, he is with his wife. They’ll wait for their boat together.”

“He’s not alone anymore?” she whimpered.

“No, and he won’t be ever again. He is saved, Morgana. You can be happy now.”

Her eyes burned.

A tear ran down her cheek.

“Sister?” Freya whispered worriedly.

Morgana laughed tremulously. She held Galahad as close as she could without waking him up and closed her eyes.

“I am. I am happy now.”

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

Morgana had never shown the middle finger to anyone, not even to Arthur when he had explained to her that her colleagues weren’t being sexist: they were just terrified of her.

Nevertheless, she had to count to ten _twice_ when her assigned doctor tried to lecture her on how to breastfeed properly, and she managed to keep her temper in check only by focusing on Galahad’s voracious mouth around her nipple. She knew plenty about breastfeeding, thank you very much. Yet, to the doctor’s knowledge, she was a primipara, so she gritted her teeth and kept calm.

When Gwaine came in and the doctor went starry-eyed, Morgana’s patience evaporated. She thought about inflicting her a magical genital itch. Possibly with red, scarring rashes.

Gwaine’s bemused glance reminded her to behave.

She quickly told the doctor to fuck off.

“I'm a bad influence,” Gwaine laughed.

“You are.”

He set a couple of her favourite novels on her bedside table and took off his leather jacket.

“Your mother is asking for pictures of her grandson.”

“She can fuck off too.”

“See, I thought you would say it, so that’s precisely what I told her.”

“Really?"

Gwaine grinned unapologetically and sat on the bed next to her, “It’s the easiest way to stay on your father’s good side.”

“Fair point.”

He kissed her cheek and his stubble grazed lightly on her sensitive skin. He sneaked his hand between her palm and Galahad’s head, cradling their son gently as she fed him.

“He’s a hungry little thing, isn’t he?”

“Very.”

“Do you think we’ll need formula?”

“No, it’s all perfectly fine,” she reassured him. Galahad whimpered, his little hands trying to grasp her but closing on empty air. Morgana moved him to her other breast, juggling child, tiny fingers and clothes with the practiced ease of pure muscle memory. She sighed, smiling. “See? We’re all fine.”

Gwaine let her rearrange herself before he reached again for their son. He rested carefully his calloused hand on his small body, and Galahad seemed to appreciate the warmth of his palm, recognising instinctively the touch of his father: he relaxed even more in Morgana’s hold, still suckling hungrily. It hurt a little bit, but she was growing used to it.

Morgana tilted her head, resting comfortably against Gwaine. He slipped his free hand behind her back, rubbing soothing circles on her aching muscles.

“I love you,” she murmured softly.

“I know.”

“Gwaine…”

He chortled throatily.

“Yeah, yeah. I love you too. Both of you.”

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

They got a dog. A damned Czechoslovakian Wolfdog, because Arthur and Gwaine could be unbearably mulish when they teamed up.

Morgana vetoed each direwolf name, claiming that anything related to the Starks would be bad luck. No one could really argue with that.

Merlin, on the other hand, refused ‘Sirius’, even if Arthur and Gwaine claimed for hours that he was the best _Harry Potter_ character ever and, really, Morgana and he should have been happy that they had even suggested a name from those books.

In the end, they settled on ‘Remus’. The pup learned to answer to Gwaine’s irritated “ _Moony!_ ”, too.

Morgana huffed and scowled and rarely spared the dog a glance, fully convinced that no one ever caught her sneaking him pieces of banana pancakes under the table. She still repeated, endlessly, that she was a cat person, even when she sat on the couch and Remus jumped beside her to rest his head on her legs.

When they eventually moved Galahad to his green-painted nursery, Remus started sleeping at the feet of his cot, and there was no way to convince him to return to his designated spot in the living room.

He went as far as dragging his dog bed in the very room, all the while whining stubbornly and wagging his tail.

Merlin beamed.

“See? I told you dogs are great for children.”

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

Gwaine left his car on the side of the road and rubbed his hands vigorously, blowing on his red fingers. His breath came out in little clouds of steam that fogged his vision briefly. He was shivering in his coat, and he deeply regretted not wearing gloves.

A frail coat of frost was covering the grass blades, and droplets of ice trickled down the thin threads of the cobwebs between the reeds.

He walked towards the shore smiling happily. His head was full of the images of his son’s curious face, of his frown when he heard a new, unknown voice, and of the gleeful sounds he made when Gwaine let him play with his scarred fingers.

He closed his eyes and thought of Morgana’s exhausted smile on a specific afternoon when she had fallen asleep with him on the couch, Gwaine’s arms around her hips and her hands holding Galahad safely against her breast.

Gwaine looked at the lake and he crouched down, letting his fingers dip in the ice-cold water.

He waited.

“You were right, little sister. I am healed.”

There was no answer, no sound. Only nimbuses of fog curling in the winter air, spreading a thick, grey blanket which shielded the opposite shore from human’s sight.

So maybe it was just a cold subaqueous wave or his own deluded mind, but for one second, Gwaine thought he felt soft fingers caressing him back underwater.

It was a good memory to bring back home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> About the title: Galahad was one of the three knights who was ever honoured with catching sight of the Holy Grail, and after his vision he ascended to Heaven. The Holy Grail would have healed Arthur and Camelot, cleansed them of all sins, which is the reason why the knights entered the enterprise. I guess that, in this fan fiction, Galahad ended up _being_ the Holy Grail, so to speak, sanctioning the final healing of all the characters who needed saving.  
>  About the chapter: I purposely didn’t use the names of Eoin Macken’s parents for Gwaine’s mother and father. It’s common knowledge that Macken lost his father in 2007, and this may be silly of me, but I drew a line there. While I thought playing with his sisters’ names would be harmless, the subject of his parents is another story. Sure, I doubt Eoin Macken will ever read this fan fiction – ‘though it would please me a lot because I have zero shame – but I would feel disrespectful towards him and his family if I used his father’s name for such a trivial matter. Again, it’s probably just a silly qualm, but still.
> 
> On a brighter note, in the near future I plan on writing a couple of missing moments about Arthur and Morgana in Boston, and I do have half a plan of writing another fan fiction about this tv-show. Supposedly, it will be gayer than Appel du Vide. Way gayer, hopefully.  
> So I suggest you check my account from time to time. I don’t know how soon any of this will happen because, technically speaking, I have a thesis to write and exams to pass, two Star Wars AUs to put into words, and just _life_ , but yeah. I’ve grown really fond of my Avalon family. So they will definitely be back.


End file.
